


Discount Angels

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Series: Secondhand Saints [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Needs a Hug, Castiel and Jimmy Novak Are Twins, Castiel is a Good Dad, Dean is a Good Friend, Dean is a Good Stepdad, Destiel - Freeform, Doctor!Sam, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Found Family, Gabe is ridiculous, Gabriel Being Gabriel, Gen, Human AU, Lucifer is a Disruptive Influence, Lucifer too, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parents Castiel & Dean Winchester, Sam is a Saint, So is Gabe, Teacher!Dean, Writer!Castiel, Writer!Dean, and a better boyfriend, artist!castiel, hugs for everyone, so does Claire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SEQUEL TO HALF PRICE GEMINI</p>
<p>Four years and zero major crises later the Novak and Winchester families have established a new normal. But with Castiel's brother Lucifer out on probation, Cas is forced by circumstance to accept both his brother and Lucifer's dark past into his home. The question is whether or not they'll survive the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sell Your Fear and Leave Me Standing Here

**Prologue: Sell Your Fear and Leave Me Standing Here**

            “Hello, it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” Castiel sing-songed into the bookstore’s landline.

            “James.”

            Castiel sighed, “Hello, Rafael.” 

            “It’s been far too long.”

            “I consider myself to be an atheist when it comes to small talk.”

            Silence buzzed on the other end of the line.

            Castiel silently bemoaned his brother’s limited imagination, but he was in a good mood and willing to play along, “I don’t believe in chit-chat.”

            “Very well,” Rafael said stiffly, he had never really known how to communicate with Castiel anymore than the youngest Novak had known how to communicate with him… Not that Raf knew who Cas really was now; or, more accurately, who ‘James’ _wasn’t_.

            “What do you want, Raf?” Castiel asked, tones clipped, words bitten off with neat little clicks of his teeth. 

            “It’s about Lucifer.”

            Cold seeped into Castiel’s stomach and pooled there, solidifying into a heavy block of ice dragging his insides down, down, down.  “What about Lucifer?” he asked tersely, throat tight and aching with the strain of the past.

            “He’s due for parole soon.”

            “He’s in a mental institution. They don’t do parole.”

            “Forgotten the terms of the sentence already?  You have gone soft since law school, James,” Rafael’s voice dripped condescension and while Castiel had no right to feel indignant, _he_ hadn’t _actually_ been the twin to earn his juris doctorate, he couldn’t help the hot flame of irritation burning beneath his breastbone. 

            “I don’t have time to sit around being mocked, Raf, get to the point,” Castiel said, words measured, tone sharp. 

            “Lucifer is due for parole in the next month and according to his _keepers_ ,” Rafael sneered the word.  Castiel was fairly sure that was not the correct term for mental health professionals but figured it was in his best interest to cut this conversation off as quickly as possible and correcting Rafael’s vocabulary would do nothing but drag it out, “He _should_ be let out, contingent on good behavior, of course,” Rafael concluded.

            “What does this have to do with me?” Castiel was keeping his answers simple and to the point, the better to speed up this interminable conversation and to avoid any slip-ups that might make Raf question his identity. 

            “Lucifer must be released to the care and supervision of a trusted family member. You.” 

            “Me?” Castiel couldn’t help it, he snarled the word, chewing it up and spitting it out, a lump of masticated sound. 

            “You,” Rafael was unperturbed by the verbal upchucking, “You’re the most logical choice, and frankly the only one who can do it.”

            “What?” Castiel growled, straining to rein in his temper.

            “Zachariah is out of the country for the next six months on some sort of film shoot for his work, Mother is hardly a capable adult, Father remains missing – ”

            “Or dead,” Castiel muttered mutinously.

            “ – And I have small children, the presence of a convicted criminal in the home is unthinkable.”

            A Herculean effort later and Castiel managed to form a polysyllabic sentence, “I have a child too.”

            “Claire? Send her to live with her mother for a few months, that’s the convenience of divorce.”

            “Amelia died four years ago, Rafael,” Castiel was resisting the urge to physically murder his brother. Or at least throw the phone across the room. 

            “Oh, well, that’s unfortunate.”

            “That’s one way of putting it, yes,” Castiel said tersely. 

            “You’ll simply have to make it very clear to both Claire and Lucifer what the expectations are in your home.”

            “What?”

            “Well, they’ll be living together, best to set some boundaries, create a safe environment.”

            “ _Rafael._ ”

            “And Claire is nineteen, right? Plenty old enough to know how to handle herself.”

            “Claire is _seventeen_ , and no, I’m not taking on Lucifer.”

            “I’ll provide the facility with your phone number, they’ll be wanting to call and update you on Lucifer’s parole process, and of course you’ll need to know when to pick him up. I assume you’ve abandoned that whole ‘GreenPeace’ thing from college and drive something more respectable than a used bicycle now,” Rafael steamrolled over his brother’s protests and Castiel really, really wanted to kill the smug bastard. 

            “Why can’t Chuck and Becky take Lucifer?  And are you absolutely sure Zachariah is out of country?”

            “Their lifestyles are far too transitory and yes, Zachariah _is_ out of the country for the next six months.”

            “Dammit,” Castiel cursed under his breath.

            “You can’t imagine how pleased I am that you’ve taken up the burden of helping Lucifer re-integrate back into society, thank you, Jim.” and with that Rafael hung up.

            Somehow that did not make Castiel any less desperate to kill something.


	2. And Reruns Become Our History

**Chapter 1: And Reruns Become Our History**

            “Explain to me how you’ve actually managed to _failart_?” Krissy demanded, drumming her heels against the counter she sat on, effectively blocking anyone who might want to purchase anything.

            “I haven’t _failed_ …yet,” Claire protested, glaring down at her friend from her perch atop Beehive Books’ creaky ladder.  She shelved books with the sort of focused anger found in heavenly warriors or straight-A students whose valedictorian status was threatened by something as ‘frivolous’ as an elective. 

            “No, seriously, let’s think about this for a minute, it shouldn’t be physically, literally or fucking _cosmically_ possible for you for fail art.  It defies genetics! Science is not to be fucked with! That biology shit is _real_!”  Krissy was fond of throwing expletives into sentences where they weren’t necessary and using kiddie phrases like ‘gosh darn-it’ when any normal person would be cussing like a sailor.  It defied explanation. After twelve years of Krissy-exposure Claire had effectively stopped wondering about it. 

            “Just because my dad is –

            “ – Fucking Picasso – ”

            “ – _Talented_.  Doesn’t mean I will be.” 

            “Oh, I’m sorry, he’s fucking Dean isn’t he?”  Krissy laughed at Claire’s pained expression.

            “Those are my _parents_ you’re cackling about,” Claire groaned, “ _Gross_.” 

            “Yeah, but they were town gossip before they were your parents,” Krissy grinned, unrepentant.

            “Um, no. That’s not how time works, Kris.”

            “Ah, so she knows how to tell time but can’t paint a bowl of fruit.”

            “Hey!”

            “Fruit? Tedious.  And beige,” Castiel commented coolly, appearing like a phantom behind the counter.  Krissy yelped and half-fell off the edge, saved only by her quick reflexes and Cas catching her jacket collar.

            “Hi Dad,” Claire said, voice stilted and a little awkward, very aware of what they were talking about before his sudden appearance.  He had to have sold his soul to _something_ ; the man was a ghost!  And making being a typical teenager more than a little difficult. 

            “Claire,” he gave her a bland look and she blushed to the roots of her hair, cursing her pale complexion and big-mouthed best friend all the while.   

            “Hey, Novak,” Krissy said, grin wide and shameless.  Claire wanted to kick her but couldn’t reach without getting off the ladder.

            “Hmm,” Castiel gave her a slightly knowing bland look and Krissy had the grace to turn white as a sheet.

            “Sooo…how’s things?” Krissy asked, returning to drumming her heels against the counter, thunk-thunk-thunk. 

            “Too vague. Revise, specify, and get back to me,” Castiel said absently, picking up a dog-eared paperback he had wedged behind the paper shredder under the counter.  Recently he had taken to hiding his supply of guilty pleasure books. Claire wasn’t entirely clear on _why_ , although she had some vague idea that it might have something to do with the fact that they actually belonged to Sam and Castiel didn’t want the younger Winchester to know he was stealing them.  Or, more specifically, that Gabriel was stealing them and Cas was stealing them from Gabe.

            “God, what are you, a syllabus? ‘Edit your thesis statement, it’s too vague’!  Ugh!” Krissy flopped backwards onto the counter, sprawling across Castiel’s workspace.

            “That’s what you get when you try to be funny,” Claire teased.

            “I swear to god, your stepfather can’t take a joke.”

            “In your revised thesis statement you made a pun about the generality of generals in the Napoleonic Wars,” Claire said archly.

            “Your uncle suggested that!”

            “Never trust Gabriel!” Cas and Claire said in unison without bothering to look at each other.

            Krissy rolled her eyes at her friend, “I still don’t get why you aren’t suffering through Winchester’s class with me.”

            “He’s _Dean_ ,” Claire protested, “It would be weird.”

            “So you’re taking art instead. How’s that working out for you?”

            “Don’t make me throw this book at you while you’re helpless,” Claire mock-threatened.

            Castiel pulled a face, “Never take art in high school.”

            Claire gave an exaggerated groan, “ _Now_ you tell me.”

            “In high school they expect you to paint a bowl of fruit.  Real art demands that you paint more, that you paint the _idea_ of fruit,” Castiel instructed. 

            “What are you, artsy Buddha?” Krissy squinted up at him. 

            “What are you, a teal paperweight?”  Castiel replied serenely.   

            “Girls, girls, you’re both sassy, no need to hold a dance off,” Claire mock-soothed. 

Castiel gave her an unimpressed look.

“Burn!” Krissy cackled. 

“You need to spend less time with my uncle,” Claire sighed.

 “Um, no. He’s the one with the free coffee.”

            Castiel snorted.

            “What?”

            “It’s not free, he’s just keeping a tab,” Claire clarified, “He’ll hand you a giant bill the minute you turn eighteen.”

            “What?!” Krissy yelped, lurching into a seated position. 

            “Yes,” Castiel confirmed without looking up from Sam/Gabe’s battered copy of _The Spellman Files_. 

            “No, really,” Krissy looked around, a little panicked, “You guys are kidding, right?”

            Neither Novak spoke. The only sound was the soft shh-shh of Cas turning pages. 

            “They’re kidding, Krissy,” a new voice clarified from the doorway.

            “Ben!” Krissy yelped, hopping down from the counter, “Save me from these lunatics!”

            “Sorry, no can do, Kris, I’m just here to pick Claire up to go to the library.”

            “Is that a euphemism?” Krissy asked; head cocked to the side.

            “Less. Time. With. My. Uncle,” Claire gritted out, flushing a shocking shade of crimson.

            “Is it?” Castiel didn’t look up from his pilfered book but his fingers did still on the pages.

            “What?” Claire squawked, sure that if she was going to die from embarrassment, it would be right here, right now. 

            “A euphemism. You know my fondness for slang,” Castiel explained patiently. 

            Fondness for slang? Castiel had a fondness for slang the way cats had a fondness for insects.  Fun to tear apart but ultimately unsatisfying. 

            Ben had a mildly long-suffering but ultimately patient look on his face that Claire would gladly kiss him for (and probably would once they got to the car and away from her dad’s all-too-knowing eyes).  “Not a euphemism, just a research project.”

            “Hmm. Yes, biology is fascinating,” Cas seemed focused on the book in his hand but Claire could sense his smirk from across the store. 

            “Dad, I’m taking physics this semester.  And before you make a joke about Newton’s Laws of Motion, you giant nerd, the project is for Law Studies.”

            “The class you’re taking _instead of_ Winchester’s evil Military History, abandoning me to your stepfather’s ruthless red pen of death!” Krissy complained.

            “I’d try for a jailbait joke but it just doesn’t seem worth it,” Castiel murmured, focus sliding back towards the paperback. 

            “You know what, I’m coming with you!” Krissy declared.

            “Okay, but you’re helping research if you do,” Ben said, raising a challenging eyebrow.

            “Sure, I can research.”

            Ben gave her a flat look.

            She narrowed her eyes at him. He raised his eyebrows at her. Claire rolled her eyes at the both of them. 

            “Come on, let’s get moving before my dad says something else potentially humiliating.”

            “One would think one would have developed some sort of immunity after seventeen years in my company,” Castiel said absently.

            “One would think one would run out of creative ways to be embarrassing,” Claire teased.

            Castiel peered over the top of his book and flashed her one of his rare grins, “One lives to serve.”

            “One realizes that this isn’t going to end anytime soon.  One will now wait in the car for other ones to stop bantering,” Ben inserted with an easy smile, kissing Claire on the cheek and exiting, bickering with Krissy all the while. 

            “Hmm, good choice, that one,” Castiel observed. 

            “You mean I made a good choice dating him or he made a good choice to head out to the car?” Claire asked wryly.

            “Whichever pleases you,” Castiel said with a serene smile.

            Claire snorted, “You act all composed but I know your secret.  You sir, are a sass-monster.”

            “Respect your elders, Claire,” Castiel said with mock-severity.

            “Yeah, yeah,” she waved him off, “I’d better get going before Krissy gets bored and decides to chat up whatever poor bastard Gabe has working behind the counter this week.”

            “Things just haven’t been the same since Kevin left,” Castiel sighed regretfully. 

            “You mean since Krissy realized she could get her free food.”

            A small smile curled at the edges of Cas’ mouth.  “She intimidates most boys your age.”

            “Yeah, but they try anyway.”

            “No matter how many times she freezes them out – ”

            “ – They pop up – ”

            “ – Like daisies!”

            “Nice Mulan reference, Dad.”

            Castiel smiled, “I try.”

            “Bye, Dad.”

            “Have fun, no death,” Castiel said absently. 

            Claire rolled her eyes with a fond smile and raced out to meet her (very patient) boyfriend and (very impatient) best friend. 

…

            Castiel sighed into the emptiness of the bookshop.  A few customers slid lazily through the shelves like tropical fish in a tank, a sea of brightly colored jackets in a school of thought.  Castiel smiled quietly to himself at the simile. That was good. He should remember that.

            Speaking of remembering things…

            He tried to shove his conversation with Rafael to the back of his mind where it had been unhappily residing for the past two weeks. 

            No such luck.

            What was he going to tell Claire?  Dean? Even Gabe and Sam would need to hear about this. 

            Unbidden, Jimmy’s long-ago voice reverberated through his cortex. 

            _“El, you’re not going to like this… Lucifer’s been accused of murder… I’m representing him in court…”_

Castiel had wondered, one, two, eight, twelve years later what would have happened if he hadn’t hung up the phone on his brother that night.  Probably nothing good.

            But here they were, almost thirteen years away from that night and Castiel… couldn’t. He couldn’t stomach looking at Lucifer and seeing… what?  Seeing a brother? Castiel didn’t have brothers. He had a dead twin, a TV executive and a passive-aggressive bastard whose name began with ‘Raf’ and ended in ‘eal’. Lucifer didn’t even make the list of what Castiel Novak didn’t have. 

            He set the book aside, the words swimming before his eyes.  He shoved his reading glasses up his forehead and into his hair, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his aching head on the heels of his hands. What to tell Dean…

            _“Ah, yes, my psychotic elder brother named after the devil will be living with us for the foreseeable future because my **other** brothers are too self-absorbed to bother with his care and upkeep and my literally-insane mother isn’t capable of taking care of herself, let alone **another** lunatic. I hope that’s ok.” _

            Castiel would rather be shot all over again than have to give that particular speech.

            And then there was Claire, beautiful, perfect Claire, his daughter in all but blood and too young by half.  The thought of having his family and _Lucifer_ living in the same apartment made Castiel’s blood boil.  If Lucifer hurt any of them…

            Well.

            What was it Castiel said to Jimmy all those years ago before he hung up the phone on the last piece of his childhood?            

            _“Quite cordovan, I’m sure.”_

Castiel whispered the words to himself like a prayer, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes against the world’s harsh light.

            “Quite cordovan, I’m sure.”

…

            “So what are we doing?” Krissy asked, propping her feet up on the back of Claire’s seat.  

            Ben raised an eyebrow at her, “Going to the library.”

            “Seriously? That’s _really_ your idea of what to do on the weekend?”

            “That’s what we do on the weekend when I need to research my Law Studies project without my dad looking over my shoulder,” Claire informed her. 

            “I’m telling you, Claire, this isn’t a good idea,” Ben cautioned.

            “What? What?  What am I missing here?” Krissy demanded; giving Claire’s seat a kick with her combat boot. 

            “Our project is this case study…” Claire shifted uncomfortably.

            “And we have to pick a high profile case dealing with criminal insanity pleas,” Ben added.

            “And I’m studying my uncle.”

            “What?” Krissy yelped, “No way! No fucking way!”

            “Yeah,” Claire winced.

            “Your Uncle? As in your-uncle-named-after-the-fucking-devil, uncle?!”

            “No, my uncle with the wife and three small children who keeps sending my dad passive-aggressive Christmas cards on New Years.”

            Ben laughed. Krissy rolled her eyes but didn’t argue the point, “So you’re studying Lucifer’s case.  Without telling your dad.  Ben’s right, this is a horrible idea.”

            “ _Krissy_ ,” Claire sighed, “Not you too.” 

            “I’m just saying,” Krissy shrugged, “It’s never a good idea to go behind Novak’s back. He’s psychic, I swear to god.”

            “Just think about what this’ll do to your dad if he finds out,” Ben said gently.

            “Well, he won’t,” Claire said, setting her jaw, “He won’t tell me anything about this and I want to know. It’s my family too. The last time he kept secrets from me,” she sighed, “didn’t end well.” 

            Ben rested a hand on her knee; she gave him a brief smile. 

            “I just want to know what happened,” she didn’t say the other thoughts that were shivering through her mind. She didn’t want to say too much. There were things she couldn’t tell her friends.  And that folder she found in Cas’ filing cabinet a week ago, the history there and the spaces left blank… Well, she was pretty sure that was dangerous territory for anyone who didn’t know all the details of her family’s fractured fairy tale. So she kept her mouth shut and focused on the warmth of Ben’s hand on her knee and the familiar red-gold blur of autumn Orcastle sliding past the window. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are mysterious here…but I promise all will come clear soon… :)   
> The book Castiel is reading is The Spellman Files by Lisa Lutz, (yes, it’s a real book, most of the books Cas reads in this fic with the exception of the Moondor series and the AngelFall books will be real, published works). The chapter title comes from the song ‘Name’ by the Goo Goo Dolls (a great song).   
> As always, reviews make my day and if you guys have a bit of time, I’d love to hear from you!


	3. I’ve Forgotten What to Do to Fit the Mold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A giant THANK YOU to anyone who commented on either this fic or Half Price Gemini! Thank you guys, your kind words make my day!

**Chapter 2: I’ve Forgotten What to Do to Fit the Mold**

                  Lucifer paced. It was a stereotypical move, really, the pacing.  If someone had taken a still frame shot of this moment (and all the previous moments stacked up like Jenga pieces behind him) they could easily have called it “Portrait of a Mental Patient” and been safely within the realm of accepted archetype. Huh.  With a pretentious name like that they could probably have sold that photo and made some decent money.  More’s the pity. 

                  Lucifer shook his head. His mind was wandering again. Minds tended to do that if you let them and it wasn’t like there was much here to hold his attention. Mental hospitals were sterile, organized and consequently proud members of his personal list of Extremely Boring Places Never to Be Visited Again on Pain of Fiery Death.

                  He checked the time, counting down the hours and weeks until he was finally out of this off-white hellhole. 

                  His pacing path didn’t so much as redirect itself.  He stopped when his knees thwacked against his bedframe.  He didn’t acknowledge the brief flare of discomfort. His eyes were tracking time across the shelf across his bed, searching, searching…searching… ah. There it was.  A half-crumpled shoebox shoved towards the back, smothered by thirteen years of detritus. 

                  Ha. Shoebox.  Stereotypical again. 

                  Lucifer yanked it out savagely, not bothered by the storm of small items the gesture dislodged. They rained down around him like so much sleet in a storm and he didn’t so much as twitch. Stillness seemed to be a family trait. His mind’s eye flared and burned as his thoughts raced back through unwanted memories.

                  _His mother, frozen like a statue at her easel, head tipped slightly to the side, paint dripping from a brush suspended, forgotten in her hand._

_“She hasn’t moved.”_

_“What?” Lucifer snapped unintentionally, suddenly angry. So very, very angry with his mother, with his father, with the whole fucking situation._

_“She hasn’t moved,” another little voice echoed the first, a soft note of reproach echoing on the end._

_“How long?”_

_Both little voices were silent and Lucifer risked a glance down, meeting twin pairs of bottomless blue eyes._

_“Well? What now, munchkins?  Cat got your tongue?”_

_“Mom got rid of the cat,” the reproachful one said, turning his face away and taking the other’s hand in his despite the fact that nine and three quarters was really too old for children to be holding hands._

_“I_ know _that, Jimmy-boy, I was there,” Luc rolled his eyes, privately hoping he had guessed right and that one actually_ was _Jimmy._

_“How would we know?” the other one, that must be Castiel (they weren’t correcting him so Lucifer decided to just assume he’d guessed right), said, slightly bitter._

_“Know what, kiddie?” Lucifer asked._

_“If you were here or not,” Castiel turned his face away from his older brother too and Luc felt suddenly and inexplicably bereft._

_“That’s not fair, El,” Jimmy said softly but his twin ignored him in favor of giving Lucifer one more squint-eyed look before turning away again._

_Luc decided to let it pass.  “What’s the deal with Mom?  When’d she start…this?” he made a vague gesture in her general direction.  She hadn’t so much as twitched despite the fact that she was within easy hearing distance of their conversation._

_“About a day after you left,” Jimmy informed him._

_“She’s been like this for_ a whole day _?” Lucifer asked, appalled._

_“Yes,” Castiel said._

_“We’re scared, Luc,” Jimmy murmured._

_Lucifer didn’t say what he was thinking._ ‘I am too, kid _’ isn’t exactly comforting._

                  In the present Lucifer dug his fingers into the soft cardboard of the shoebox until his knuckles went white.  He wondered… He wondered a lot.  What happened to El? Jimmy?  Jimmy’s adorably white-picket-fence little family? He bet they had a dog. Claire probably had a little sibling or three now.  They probably lived in the suburbs somewhere.  Nice house.  Not too big. Jimmy wouldn’t let any of those kiddies get lost.  He was too much of a mother hen for that.  Damn, he was probably still mother-henning Castiel if the stubborn bastard let him. If the stubborn bastard wasn’t dead by now.  Not that Lucifer could really point fingers when it came to dangerous lifestyles. 

                  “I guess I’ll find out soon,” he said to the ceiling, startling himself when a laugh wrenched its way out of his chest at the end of the sentence. 

                  God. Damn.  Rafael. 

                  Bastard had dropped him a phone call.  One fucking phone call in thirteen-fucking-plus years. 

                  Huh. He should really start watching his swearing if he was going to be gate-crashing Jimmy’s suburban paradise in a few weeks. 

                  Whatever.

                  Raf and his stupid phone call.  (Lucifer was trying not to feel petulant but prolonged confinement with the crazies of the universe doesn’t generate much maturity). 

                  _“Raffie-Raf-Raffleton.  To what to I owe this_ exquisite _pleasure?” Lucifer asked, voice intentionally as cutting as possible._

_“Lucifer.”_

_“That would be me, your resident devil, on your shoulder and ready for some angel-thwarting.”_

_“You’re being released on parole soon.”_

_“Oh goodie, you’ve kept yourself informed.  You know, knowledge_ is _power, Raf.”_

_“I’m calling to inform you of your living arrangements”_

_“Ooh! So cold! So formal! So chic!” Lucifer let his voice drift into a high falsetto, intentionally baiting his brother, aware that he was baiting his brother and just not giving a shit._

_“As per the terms of your parole you are to spend the first three years of your release under the supervision of a suitable family member.”_

_“Is this your way of saying you wanna be my new mommy, Raffie? Because, I’ll have you know, I’ve been burned before.”_

_“I’m calling to inform you that you will not be staying with me or my family. Please try to minimize your contact with me and do not in any way contact my wife or children. Do you understand?”_

_“Wow, ice-ice-baby, who put that stick up your ass and does your doctor know about it?”_

_“Zachariah is out of the country on business and our mother is still in…care. You will be living with James and his three-ring-circus of a family.”_

_Lucifer raised his eyebrows, surprised at the venom in Rafael’s voice. Raf and Jimmy had always gotten along, they actually_ liked _each other, which was pretty damn rare in their seven circles of family hell. “Oookay, what’d Jimmy do to piss you off?”_

_“His life choices in the past decade have been…questionable.”_

_“Aww, did he vote democrat in the last election?”_

_“He will be coming here to pick you up in two month’s time.”_

_“Wait,” Lucifer half-shouted, not caring that this was a public phone and he was standing in the middle of the hallway in a damn mental ward, “Raf, what’s been happening?  What’s happened to everyone?  What - ? Ugh. The fucker hung up on me.”_

Now Lucifer half-lay on his bed, legs hanging off the edge, his displaced possessions crunching and crackling under his back, shoebox balanced on his stomach.  He tried not to be surprised that Jimmy hadn’t called to talk to him about their new living arrangements. He tried not to be a little pissed and, okay, _fine_ , the therapy had to come in somewhere, _angry_ and _hurt_ that his favorite brother hadn’t bothered to contact him in twelve years. No calls, no letters, no _owl post_ (because yes, Lucifer _did_ read, _thank you_ , there’s not much else to do here among the mad). He wondered what Rafael had meant about Jimmy’s decisions being questionable the past decade.

                  But Lucifer wondered a lot of things. 

                  Sudden anger soaked through his body like blood through a bandage and he sat up with a jerk and _flung_ the damn shoebox at the far wall.  The old, broken-down cardboard gave as soon as it touched drywall and the box exploded, scattering letters and notes and photos and sketches everywhere.  They flew around him like white and black and rainbow-colored snow. All the tiny scraps of family he had gathered before they came to take him away.  The sketches were from Mom and Castiel.  Before she went off the deep end and refused to grab life preserver.  Before he hated Luc. The photos were a hodgepodge. Polaroid shots of Lucifer’s time-faded high school days, candids of each of his brothers growing up. Hell, he could make a stop-motion movie out of all the pictures he had of the rugrats growing up. He had taken as many as he could, as if having artificial versions of them with him could make up for all the times he had to leave them for one, two, six, seven days at a time. All the birthdays, graduations (high school and college), one or two weddings.  There were even some of Jimmy and his little family.  Pretty little housewife Amelia (personally Lucifer felt she was a bit of a flake but it wasn’t like he could go around giving dating advice), adorable little Claire (she really was the cutest baby) and proud papa Jimmy (Lucifer was proud of him too, not that he needed to know…but hell, maybe he’d tell him when the brat came to pick him up).  There were one or two of Castiel but they were all old (well, older than the ones of Jimmy and co., they were all out of date, after all). These were from before the mess with the guns and the blood and getting arrested and the courtroom and his little brother cutting himself out of their family just like Rafael and Zachariah before him.  Mostly El at gallery openings and book signings, one or two of him hunched over a canvas, up to his elbows in paint.  And there was one photo, only one, of their father.  Lucifer regretted keeping it sometimes.  But only sometimes.

                  The letters, those were all Jimmy.  The first year of Lucifer’s incarceration Jimmy sent him letters, short ones, to the point and almost terse.  But letters. Keeping him updated.

                  It was a level of kindness Lucifer literally could not comprehend. 

                  But after a year they stopped. Cold turkey. 

                  And Lucifer was ignorant for the next twelve years. 

                  He wondered what he’d see when Jimmy came to get him. 

                  Lucifer wondered a lot.

…

                  “Still-lifes are pure evil,” Claire muttered, hunched over her homework assignment at the kitchen table, squinting at the mess of objects she was supposed to be illustrating.

                  When Dean and Cas, each sitting on opposite ends of the living room couch tapping away at their laptops, legs tangled together, failed to respond to her plight, Claire groaned theatrically. 

                  “Still-lifes are the spawn of Satan,” she snarled under her breath, squinting harder at the jumble that had taken over their table. 

                  Dean, smirking, poked Cas in the ribs.  He almost cracked up when Cas looked up at him with a squint-eyed glare of his own.

                  “What?” the bookseller asked. 

                  Dean shook her head, grinning and held a finger to his lips before pointing at Claire’s intense expression.  “She looks like you when she’s pissed,” Dean said under his breath.

                  Castiel gave him a flat look and shoved his freezing bare feet under Dean’s shirt, curling his ice-cube-like toes against Dean’s warm stomach.    
                  Dean, predictably, yelped. “Son of a bitch, Cas, do you keep your feet in a freezer?”

                  Cas gave him a Cheshire cat grin and went back to typing. 

                  Dean kicked at him half-heartedly but didn’t manage to dislodge his feet.

                  “You two are ridiculous,” Claire said, looking up from her homework, “And completely unhelpful.”

                  “I can’t do your homework for you,” Castiel reminded her, “and every time I try to help you snap at me.”

                  “Hey, don’t play the victim here, your advice made no sense!”

                  “Art is more than the imitation of life, it is a greater truth,” Castiel recited.

                  “No. Sense.”  Claire intoned.

                  “I could do your homework for you,” Dean said with a crooked grin.

                  “Um, no, Captain Stick-Person; thanks anyway.”

                  Dean shrugged, still grinning, “Hey, I offered.” 

                  Claire stuck her tongue out at him. 

                  “Cas, Claire’s being mean to me,” Dean teased. 

                  “Shut up, you,” Castiel said without looking up, digging his frigid toes into Dean’s abs.

                  “Seriously, do your feet even belong to your circulatory system?” Dean griped.

                  Cas gave him an enigmatic smile and kept typing. 

                  Of course this was when Gabe came flying through their doorway, “ _Cassieeee!_ ” the tiny baker wailed. 

                  “What?” Castiel didn’t bother to look up but Dean caught the smile that dance on the edges of his stern expression. 

                  “Feeeeed meeeee!” Gabe keened, flopping onto an armchair and going limp. 

                  “Why?” Cas’ voice remained monotone but he shot Dean a tiny smirk.  Dean grinned back. Teasing Gabe was the best.

                  “I went to the grocery store with the moose last weekend.”

                  “So? Sammy’s very good at grocery shopping. He can even reach all the _really_ tall shelves,” Dean poked.

                  “Shaddup. My car’s in the shop and the moose offered to give me a ride.  Then he _criticized everything I got_! It was like shopping with the Spanish Inquisition!  I grab some nice, regular food and it’s all _‘should you really be getting that much marshmallow fluff?’_ and _‘What do you need a jumbo mayonnaise for?’_ and _‘Did you know that a scientific study showed that Oreo filling is more addictive than cocaine to lab rats?’_.  And he made _suggestions_!”

                  “I don’t think the Spanish Inquisition makes suggestions,” Castiel deadpanned.

                  “NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!” Dean quoted, grinning when Cas and Claire laughed while Gabe glared. 

                  “I understood that reference,” Cas sounded smug, “What a periwinkle feeling.” 

                  “Can I please _finish_?” Gabe demanded, then steamrolled ahead before they could object, “I ended up walking away with _coconut water_ and _whole wheat bread_.  What is life without Wonder Bread???” 

                  “Um, a non-issue because Hostess went out of business two years ago,” Sam observed from the doorway, “And I didn’t _make_ you buy anything.”

                  “Hi Sam, can you draw?” Claire asked from the kitchen, “Desperate seniors would like to know.”

                  “Oh yes they would,” Dean snickered, “Did I tell you about the old lady who hit on him last week?”

                  “She’s a very…hands-on…lady…” Sam had a pained look on his face. 

                  “You’re not a senior yet,” Castiel reminded Claire with an equally pained look on his face, “You’re a junior, unless I missed some very big moments in your education.

                  “Yeah, but I’m taking senior-level classes so it’s not like I’m _not_ a senior.”

                  “Actually, it is, he just said it.”

                  “Shut up, Uncle Gabe.”

                  “Rude! Cassie, teach your kid manners!”

                  Cas rolled his eyes, “I thought I was supposed to make you dinner like some sort of medieval house wench.” 

                  Dean squeezed Cas’ ankle, “ _You_ are not cooking anything. You set the kitchen on fire last week.”

                  “How atomic tangerine of you to remember that,” Castiel said dryly. 

                  Their everyday domestic chaos was interrupted by the sharp shrilling of Cas’ cellphone. “Hey, Dad, phone,” Claire said, grabbing it off the kitchen counter and tossing it to him. 

                  Cas accepted the call with a pinched look.  “I’m sorry, sir. Upon reviewing your application we found that you were looney enough but just didn’t have quite enough toon for us here at Bugs Bunny Enterprises.  We’re very, incredibly, surprisingly not sorry for the inconvenience as we are just too big a company to give a shit.”

                  Dean watched curiously as Castiel winced.       

                  “Rafael, I am handling it.  Please stop calling me, I believe I’ve already fulfilled this decade’s quota for words out of your mouth that I’m willing to listen to…Well, isn’t it a _splendid_ thing for _you_ that you _aren’t_ living my life? …Again, Raf, I’ve agreed to do it, stop harassing me…Lovely to speak to you too.” Castiel grimaced as he pulled the phone away from his ear, “He is rather miserably AuroMetalSaurus when he’s in a mood.”

                  And before Dean could get a word in edgewise, before anyone could ask what more color Crayola would saddle with a name like AuroMetalSaurus, Cas opened his mouth again and these words escaped: “So that was my brother Rafael.  My brother Lucifer is coming to stay with me. Feel free to move out as you all see fit.  I will understand completely.”

                  Dean barely registered the tiny tear the thought that Cas just assumed they’d abandon him tore in his heart.  He was too busy saying, “Awesome, I’ve always wanted to meet your devil brother.  FYI, if he hurts any of you guys I’m kicking his ass.”

                  Gabe whistled, “Luci-goosey’s coming home, this is too interesting to pass up. Front row seats, please.”

                  Sam shrugged, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe, “This should be interesting.”

                  “Hear, hear,” said Claire, voice quiet and slightly shocked.  Well, it was to be expected, they’d come a long way since four years ago. Cas kept a lot fewer secrets for a lot shorter amounts of time for one thing.  Speaking of Cas…

                  He had closed his eyes and was curling forward slightly, as if shocked by their declarations. As if shocked that they’d stay. The tiny tear in Dean’s heart made itself known then and he moved both of their laptops to the coffee table so she could gather the smaller man into a tight hug, cradling his head against his shoulder briefly before relaxing into a more natural posture, his arm tucked around Cas’ shoulders with Cas curling into his personal space ever so slightly.

                  “So this’ll be interesting,” Dean observed.

                  “That’s one way to put it,” Cas muttered. 

                  “Playing host to the Devil.  Huh.”

                  “Cordovan.”

                  “Sure, whatever you say, Cas.”

**Author’s Note: Hello there, thank you for reading!  Here’s Lucifer for the first (but certainly not the last time), he’s pretty fun to write, I hope you all like him.  The chapter title comes from the song ‘Who You Are’ by Madilyn Bailey…and I’m running out of stuff to say!  
As always, reviews bring sunshine to my day and if you have the time, I’d love to hear from you!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, thank you for reading! Here’s Lucifer for the first (but certainly not the last time), he’s pretty fun to write, I hope you all like him. The chapter title comes from the song ‘Who You Are’ by Madilyn Bailey…and I’m running out of stuff to say!  
> As always, reviews bring sunshine to my day and if you have the time, I’d love to hear from you!


	4. They Say Time Heals Everything...But I'm Still Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed and kudos-ed this fic and/or Half Price Gemini! It makes me so incredibly happy to see you all enjoying this fic so much, so thank you again, from the bottom of my heart.

**Chapter 3: They Say Time Heals Everything…But I’m Still Waiting**

_Saturday morning, 8:00 am_

                  Krissy rolled over and shot at death glare at her vibrating phone.  The buzzing did not stop, but the device did manage to rattle around enough to take a nosedive off her nightstand.  Krissy smirked and rolled over, leaving her phone to buzz itself out on the carpet. 

                  It apparently did not take well to abandonment. 

                  It kept buzzing.

                  Thirty minutes into the exquisite torture that was listening to the protracted death throws of every call, Krissy caved and rescued the damn thing.  “What?” she mumbled into the speaker.  If this was a joke she was going to march downstairs, caffeinate her groggy brain, then kick some serious ass.  And then maybe drink some more coffee because you didn’t really have to be all that awake to crush someone like a bug and a day was not a day without a cup of coffee drunk in meditative silence.

                  If it wasn’t a joke…well, Krissy didn’t actually have a plan for that particular eventuality.

                  It wasn’t a joke. Go figure.

                  No, instead of a convenient insect ready for crushing on the other end of the line, it was Claire, Krissy’s best friend and definitely off-limits as far as annihilation went.

                  “You in the mood for a road trip?” Claire asked, apparently deciding that normal-person greetings were for lesser mortals.

                  “No.”

                  “It’ll be fun!”

                  “G’way,” Krissy mumbled, scrubbing a hand down her face.

                  “It’ll be educational!”

                  “It’s Saturday.”

                  “Come on!”

                  “Not winning me over.”

                  “It’ll be fun!”

                  “You already tried that one.”

                  “Ben already said yes, it’ll be great!” Claire encouraged.

                  “Will there be food?”

                  “Yes.”

                  “And coffee.”

                  “You’ll have to fight me for it.”

                  “Give me five minutes.”

                  “Hurry up, we’re already in your driveway.”

_Saturday morning, 7:15 am_

                  “This is a terrible idea,” Ben squinted down at her.

                  “It was your idea,” Claire reminded him, bouncing on her heels, feeling the boards of the porch creak beneath her feet. 

                  “It was a terrible idea,” Ben reminded her.

                  “But it was yours,” she sang.

                  “…Yeah…” Ben sighed, “We’re so dead if your dad finds out.”

                  “He won’t,” Claire assured him

                  “We’ll be _really_ dead when Dean finds out.”

                  “He won’t.”

                  Ben gave her a _look_. 

                  “He won’t even know we’re gone, I told him I’d be over at Krissy’s house, you tell your parents you’re over at Krissy’s house too, and Krissy tells her parents that she’s over at my house. Krissy’s parents work weekends, she’ll just leave them a note and even if they do call the bookshop, my dad hates the phone so much right now he won’t bother answering it for anyone other than Dean and me.”

                  “What’s with the sudden phone boycott?” Ben’s brows furrowed.

                  “Uncle Raf keeps calling.”

                  “He’s the – ”

                  “ – Passive aggressive one, yeah.”

                  Ben shook his head, “Your family is special, Novak.”

                  “Yours isn’t much better, Braedon,” she shot back with a grin.

                  There was a moment of silence as they stared at Ben’s car parked in the driveway.

                  “We’re really going through with my dumb road trip idea,” Ben muttered.

                  “Yep,” Claire grinned wickedly, “Now let’s go wake up Krissy.”

                  “You are pure evil, Novak.”

                  “Well, the Devil is a blood relative.”

_Saturday morning, 10:05 am_

                  Dean staggered into the kitchen, sleep-foggy and confused, and nearly tripped over his significant other.  He narrowly avoided flattening Cas, but did manage to step in a paint pallet, smearing his left foot and the hem of his sweatpants with crimson and rust.  

                  Cas’ head rose at his indignant squawk and the artist looked around vaguely, eyes lighting on Dean’s foot as it flailed about trying to remove the paint pallet. He blinked once, slowly, eyes adjusting to the sight in front of him.  “What are you doing?” he asked, gaze so focused that Dean wasn’t sure what Cas was addressing, him, his foot, or the paint pallet. 

                  “A little help here, Cas?” Dean asked. 

                  The other man blinked again, then reached up, one-handed, and pulled the thing off Dean’s foot.

                  Dean wiggled his newly freed, and very paint-soaked, toes.  “Do you have to work on stuff in the middle of the floor?” Dean asked, knowing the answer, and not really all that irritated, but feeling compelled to ask anyway.

                  “Yes,” Castiel said, voice tranquil, as he rearranged the wayward pallet out of the way of wayward walkers.

                  “No room anywhere else?” Dean observed wryly. 

                  “Exactly.”

                  Dean leaned against the back of the couch, watching where Cas sat crouched on the floor in front of a massive canvas, working the paint with his bare hands, like a potter shaping clay. 

                  “You could always work in my old place,” Dean suggested, halfway sure of what Cas’ answer will be but willing to give it a shot anyway.

                  “No.” Castiel didn’t elaborate, didn’t even look at him, but Dean could see the microscopic twitch ticking away in the set of Cas’ shoulders. 

                  “Okay,” Dean agreed easily, not requiring any further explanation.  He reached out a hand and ran his hand across Cas’ shoulders, smoothing away the tension.  Castiel leaned back into his touch and closed his eyes briefly, reminding Dean of a cat.

                  “Hey, Cas, don’t fall asleep, I won’t be able to stop you from hitting the floor,” Dean warning lightly.

                  “Hmm, you’d figure it out, I’m sure,” Cas said with smug confidence, not opening his eyes.

                  Sighing, Dean crouched down until he was sitting on the floor behind the other man, letting him flop backward until he was resting against Dean’s chest.  Dean moved his hand from Cas’ shoulders to his forehead, smoothing away the crease between his eyebrows and the hair that was falling haphazardly into his eyes.  He tried not to think about the dark circles curling under Castiel’s dark lashes.

                  “You need to sleep, Cas.”

                  Cas didn’t bother to reply beyond some indistinct mumbling. 

                  “When was the last time you slept?” Dean curled his other arm around Cas’ waist, keeping him slithering away the way he tended to do when he didn’t want to answer questions.

                  “Two days ago,” Castiel mumbled. 

                  “Yeah, that’s it, you’re going to bed,” Dean declared, moving to get up.  Cas made a small, irritable noise and latched onto the arm Dean had around his middle, refusing to let him stand. 

                  “You’re ridiculous,” Dean muttered into his dark hair.

                  “Don’t want to sleep. Can’t sleep.  Should’ve opened shop.”

                  “No, Charlie’s working today. She opened the shop.  Why aren’t you sleeping?”

                  “Dreams.”

                  “I get it.”

                  “Thank you.”

                  There was silence as they listened to each other breathe and Dean contemplated whether or not it would be worth it to try to scrub the spilled paint off the floor. He figured probably not.

                  “Where’s Claire?” Dean asked, trying to fill the quiet, “I didn’t see her.”

                  “She’s at Krissy’s,” Castiel mumbled, “Saw her leave.  In a peach-puff mood.” 

                  “You or her?”

                  “Her, I think,” Cas was getting sleepy; Dean could feel his muscles begin to unwind.

                  “She’s a good kid.”

                  “Mmm,” Cas gave a sloppy nod in acknowledgement, then blinked hazily before his eyes slid closed again, “Tired.  Dean, tell me a story?”

                  “Okay, Cas.”

                  “Thanks.”

                  “Shut up,” Dean said affectionately, “I’m coming up with a story.” 

                  Cas was asleep before Dean had finished the third sentence.

_Saturday morning, 9:01 am_

                  “So that’s your grand plan?” Krissy said doubtfully.

                  “Actually, it’s Ben’s grand plan,” Claire corrected.

                  “Ben!” Krissy yelped and tried to kick his seat, missed and hit the center console instead

                  “Hey, be nice to Stacey,” Ben ordered. 

                  “I still can’t believe you named your car ‘Stacey’.” Krissy’s eye-roll was practically audible.

                  Ben shrugged, “I liked it, she seemed like a ‘Stacey’ to me.”

                  Claire laughed, “You’re just like Dean.”

                  “Well, he is my godfather,” Ben grinned.

                  “Ack! Don’t remind me,” Claire groaned, “It makes dating you seem incestuous!”

                  Krissy cackled in the backseat, “I’d mock but it’s just too easy.” 

                  “Can we just never talk about this again?” Claire asked; voice theatrically pained.

                  Ben’s smile was crooked and infinitely patient as his friends babbled around him.

                  “ _Anyway_ ,” Krissy said, apparently remembering what it was she was making fun of in the first place, “It’s still the dumbest dumb-ass plan I’ve ever see dumb-ass.” 

                  “Dumb-ass isn’t a verb,” Claire reminded her.

                  “Can it, nerd, the point it, it’s stupid.”

                  Ben shrugged, “Admittedly, not my smartest idea, but it does have its merit.”

                  “No it doesn’t!”

                  Claire cut off Krissy’s protest, “Actually, it makes perfect sense.”

                  “Need I remind you, we’re trying to visit your criminally insane uncle, in the mental hospital where he’s _lived_ for the last _thirteen-plus years_?!”

                  Ben shot her a philosophical look through the rearview mirror, “Well, it actually makes a decent amount of sense.  Claire’s a blood relative, she’s going to be living with him in a month or two – ”

                  “Btw, if he murders you I’ll avenge your death,” Krissy assured her.

                  “No, Krissy, that’s my job,” Ben reminded her patiently.

                  “Pretty sure Dean’ll beat you to it,” Claire weighed in before shaking her head, “No, that’s not the point!  He’s not dangerous, he’s going out on parole soon, I want to meet him, get to know him a little…”

                  “Research your paper a little?” Ben said archly.

                  “Yeah, well, that too,” Krissy admitted.

                  “Dumbest plan to ever dumb-ass,” Krissy declared.

                  “It’ll be _fine_ ,” Claire reiterated; then paused to think. “Well, as long as we’re back in time for dinner.  If we’re not I think Gabriel might be the one to go murderous.  He’s cooking tonight.” 

                  “Really?” Ben sighed, “My mom’s making meatloaf.  Again.”

                  “Cry me a river, Boy Wonder,” Krissy snarked, “It’s my dad’s turn to cook tonight, we’re eating frozen lasagna, I’m sure of it.”

                  “Did I ever tell you guys about the time my dad set the kitchen on fire?” Claire said conversationally. 

_Saturday afternoon, 1:34 pm_

                  Lucifer spent the morning playing ping pong with himself and reflecting on how disappointing it was that everyone in the rec room was either too out of it to bother playing with him or considered too dangerous to be allowed near projectiles, even ones as insignificant as ping pong balls.  He met with his therapist for a solid hour, twenty-five minutes of it spent with her trying to gently goad him into talking about his feelings, twenty spent with him trying to initiate conversation about Olympic ping pong and how it was a damn shame it wasn’t in the Olympics every year, ten devoted to a dramatic recitation of _Good Morning, Vietnam_ quotes (Lucifer was the one doing the reciting, she didn’t seem like to the type to recite, dramatically or otherwise), and the last five in stony silence.  Then Lucifer went to lunch and she went to sharpen her pencils and make nasty comments about him behind his back or whatever it was therapists did when they weren’t therapy-ing.

                  After lunch Lucifer went back to ping pong and tried to tune out the art class taking place across the rec room.  It was always the same old shtick, draw what was in your heart, whatever.  Or sometimes they brought in a guest instructor and tried to teach _techniques._ Lucifer hated that word, _techniques._ His mother had been fond of that word.  She liked things linear, straightforward.  She painted things that were true-to-life, so realistic that people said that things her work looked like they might jump off the page.  Lucifer saw it the other way around.  Her work always looked like it could swallow you up, like the boat picture from that book…what was it called?  One of the Narnias.  Anyway. Her work looked like it was going to consume you, trap you.  But that’s what she did, she trapped people. 

                  Lucifer wasn’t bitter.

                  Her paintings stopped making sense around the same time she did.  At least with Castiel he never made sense.  Once he figured that out, Lucifer felt like he could relax. His mother and her work had always made sense, until one day she didn’t.  El never made sense so he couldn’t really get worse. Could he?

                  Yeah, it didn’t really make sense to him either, but Lucifer rolled with it. He needed all the reassurance he could get with his siblings.            

                  Anyway, Lucifer could have taught that fucking art class by now.  He hated listening to it.  He played ping pong extra hard to cover it up.

                  Until suddenly there was someone, an orderly or a nurse or something human-shaped wearing pale pink scrubs, at his elbow, saying “Mr. Novak, you have a visitor.”

                  What the fuck?

                  Lucifer may have said that out loud, he wasn’t sure.  But the orderly-nurse-set-of-walking-scrubs didn’t look too ruffled so maybe he didn’t.  

                  Instead he asked, “Who?”

                  “Your niece, Mr. Novak, now please come with me, she’s waiting for you.”

                  Niece? What?

                  _Claire._

                  Oh.

                  This would be interesting. 

_Saturday afternoon, 1:06 pm_

                  “You sure you don’t want us to go in with you?” Ben asked, the worried crease back between his eyebrows.

                  Claire squeezed his hand, “You’re not immediate family, you can’t, the rules say so.”

                  “Screw the rules,” Krissy grumbled.

                  “Claire,” Ben looked worried.

                  “I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” she kissed his cheek, he did not look particularly mollified, but let go of her hand reluctantly when she pulled away.

                  “Be safe,” he said, his eyes making it a request, or a demand.

                  “Have fun, no death,” Claire quoted Castiel with a quick wink and left them in the waiting room, approaching the help desk with a hint of trepidation curling in her stomach.

                  “Hi, my name is Claire Novak, I’m here to see Lucifer Novak.”

_Saturday afternoon, 1:41_

                  “Claire,” Lucifer said without preamble.  He walked into the room without any hesitation.  He owned the space. If this was hell, then he was going to be its king. 

                  Claire nodded, “Yeah, how’d you guess.”

                  “I went to this thing called school when I was your age…” he raised his eyebrows sardonically and Claire realized with a jolt just how much she had inherited from the Novak side of the family.  She had always assumed she got her complexion from blonde-haired, blue-eyed, tan-skinned, classic-Barbie-doll Amelia.  _Mom_.  The old ache curled briefly in her gut before fading.  Time could only heal some wounds so far.  But Lucifer must have taken after Cas’ father because he didn’t look much like the twins.  Instead of Cas’ pale skin and dark mop of hair, Lucifer was dusty blond and his face, though washed-out from years spent indoors, looked like it might have held onto a tan pretty easily in the right circumstances.  He was lean and angular like Cas, but taller and somehow more imposing. Cas had a presence, no mistaking it, but his was of quiet power, a cat that, under the right circumstances, could tear your face off.  His power was that of a loner, one that kept friends close and everyone else far, far away. Lucifer’s was the kind of presence that had people flocking to him…and following his orders without hesitation.

                  Interesting. She’d have to include that in her paper.  And yeah, she felt a little bit like a horrible human being for thinking that. But she had started this whole paper escapade out of a desperate need to know more about the family history Cas wouldn’t talk about.  And here was an opportunity to know more, standing right in front of her. 

                  Claire thought about what Lucifer had said, “You met me?  Or I met you, I guess…back then?”

                  “Yeah,” Lucifer shrugged, leaning against the wall, “You were tiny.  Not surprised you don’t remember it.  El was always around more than I was, anyway.”

                  “El?”

                  “Yeah, Castiel, your uncle.  Shit, don’t tell me he and Jimmy are still fighting?  They’re such babies without me aroun- Ha, well, it was kinda my fault anyway,” he shrugged comically, “Well, whattaya gonna do?” 

                  “Fighting?” Claire was disappointed in herself, she was normally much more articulate than this, but the idea of Cas and her dad, (her real, biological dad) fighting was completely alien to her. Castiel always spoke of Jimmy with this sort of wry reverence like he wasn’t sure if remembering him made him want to laugh or cry.  Like Jimmy was a beloved part of him that was taken away from him.  Claire couldn’t imagine him voluntarily giving that up for any length of time. Then again, Lucifer said it was about him, and Cas didn’t really talk about Lucifer.  At all.  Gabe joked a bit and Cas put up with it but that was it. 

                  “Yeah, fighting,” Lucifer raised both eyebrows, “You know, _conflict_.”

                  “You really need to work on your people skills.”

                  “Ha! And she does have a sense of humor! So, yeah, the twins, Castor and Pollux, le Gemini, they still fighting?”

                  “No, Dad… He never said anything about a fight.”

                  “Ah, well, that’s good,” Lucifer shrugged, as if this were to be expected.

                  “I’m sorry, I’m a little stuck on the idea that they would have fought about _anything_ , they’re so…Dad’s so… I’m running out of words here, start talking so I sound like less of an idiot.” Claire wasn’t sure where this sudden bravery was coming from, but she decided to roll with it. Act like she sassed a criminally insane relative every day.  Yeah, whatever…

                  Lucifer shrugged expansively, “Last I heard before they locked me up they hadn’t spoken for over a year, since your dad took my case.” 

                  “When was the last you heard?” Claire couldn’t help but ask out of morbid curiosity.

                  “Ah, about 12 years ago.”

                  Right before the fire. Well, shit. 

_Saturday afternoon, 1:41pm_

                  They were on the couch, Cas on one end, Dean on the other, legs tangled in the middle. Cas was reading drowsily, wrist limp, eyes casually drifting open and closed.  Dean was grading tests, red pen scratching away. 

                  “Hey,” he poked Cas’ leg with his toe, “Tell me a story.” 

                  “You’re working.”

                  “You’re not.”

                  Cas poked him back, “Not your personal audiobook.”

                  “Story, story,” Dean chanted like a small child. 

                  “No.”

                  They felling into silence again, this time with Dean trying to tickled the bottoms of Cas’ feet with the end of his pen and Cas halfheartedly trying to kick him in the face. They eventually relaxed back into their respective tasks, just absorbing each other’s presence.

                  “I fought with Jimmy,” Cas admitted into the yawning tyrian purple silence, “About Lucifer.”

                  “Yeah?” Dean stopped working but didn’t look up, sure that if he did, it would spook Cas and the other man would go silent again. 

                  “The night of the fire was the first time we spoke in over a year.”

                  Dean’s lips thinned, “And now Lucifer’s coming here.”

                  “Yeah.”

                  Dean set aside his tests and red pen, “C’mere.” 

                  Cas rolled his eyes but he rolled forward and curled into Dean’s warmth, the book squished between their bodies. 

                  “Life’s a bitch,” Dean declared, hanging onto Cas. 

                  Cas laughed into Dean’s chest, “And irony’s her sister.” 

                  “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Claire and her friends. And Dean and Cas being cute are too fun to resist. Sorry about the lack of Sam or Gabe in this one, I promise I haven’t forgotten about them! They shall have their moments!...Next chapter.   
> Umm…I’m running out of stuff to say…  
> Well, thank you for reading, you’re all wonderful, if you have time, please review, I love hearing from you all! :)   
> P.S The chapter title is from the song “I’m Not Ready to Make Nice” by the Dixie Chicks


	5. Maybe We Got Lost in Translation – Maybe I Asked for Too Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SOOOO MUCH EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED DISCOUNT ANGELS AND HALF PRICE GEMINI! I obviously have a lot of feelings about this. :) Seriously, though, your reviews make me smile like a lunatic every single time I read them, all of you are amazing.

**Chapter 4: Maybe We Got Lost in Translation – Maybe I Asked for Too Much**

_“This is stupid,” Jimmy, age seven, muttered mutinously into the carpet.  He was stretched out on his stomach; chin digging into the oriental rug._

_“No, it’s not,” Castiel said with as much quiet dignity as a seven-year-old could muster, “It’s important.  It’s our first real homework_ ever _, we need to do it right.”_

_In lieu of rolling his eyes, Jimmy rolled his whole body over until he flopped dramatically onto his back, “But it’s a stupid question. How are we supposed to know exactly what we’re going to be when we grow up?  There’s no point in writing a paragraph on something that’s probably not going to even happen.”_

_Castiel gave a little huff, “It’s not about what we’re really gonna be when we grow up, it’s about writing a paragraph.”_

_Jimmy snorted, “By that logic I can write a paragraph about anything and still be doing my homework.”_

_“_ Jimmy _,” Castiel sighed, “Please_ try _to do it right.”_

_“But El, it’s stupid!”_

_“I_ know _.”_

_“So why are you doing it?”_

_“Because I want to make Father proud, don’t you want to make Father proud?”_

_“Yes,” Jimmy rolled back onto his stomach, mumbling into the carpet again._

_Lucifer, watching this exchange from the doorway into the living room, felt his heart twist in his chest.  Father was never really going to pay attention to the twins, no matter how hard they tried. He was too distracted, too busy to have time for anyone who didn’t have something to do with work, whatever ‘work’ was. At sixteen Lucifer didn’t like to think much about what his father would have to_ do _for them to have the kind of luxury the Novak family enjoyed._

_Castiel’s voice, soft now, interrupted his train of thought, “What are you going to be when you grow up, Jimmy?”_

_“Huh?”_

_“What are you gonna write your paragraph on?  What do you want to be when you grow up?”_

_Jimmy blinked, a little surprised, his face breaking into a broad smile as he realized that he actually_ did _know the answer to his brother’s question “Father.  I want to be just like Father,” Jimmy’s eyes were bright and shining and so fucking_ innocent. _Lucifer wanted to throw up, the idea of this sweet little kid turning into Father made his stomach roll._

_“Really?” Castiel, who had rolled onto his stomach, mirroring his twin, lifted his chin from the carpet, regarding Jimmy with curious eyes, head cocked slightly to the side like a little bird._

_“Yeah,” Jimmy grinned, “I want a nice, big house somewhere and a wife and kids and maybe a dog and we’ll all be a family.  And I’ll be very big and important where I work and I’ll work a lot but I’ll come home every night and we’ll have dinner all together at the table in the kitchen.  And it’ll be really nice.  What about you?”_

_“I don’t know,” Castiel scrubbed at the carpet with his palms, glancing pensively at the paper he had been furrowing his brow over moments ago, “I just want Father to smile at me.  Just once, that’d be nice. Like the sky on a sunny day, kind of blue, but not a sad blue, a happy blue, like robin’s-egg, maybe. Whatever, it’ll be nice.  And he’ll be proud of me and he and mother won’t look at you the way they do sometimes.”_

_“Me?” Jimmy’s brow was furrowed but Lucifer knew where this was going._

_“Yeah, whenever I mess up they look at you like they’re really, really disappointed with you, which is dumb because_ you _never mess anything up. Maybe they just have a hard time telling us apart… It still seems wrong, though.  That they get mad at you and don’t say anything to me.”_

‘No,’ _Lucifer thought,_ ‘It’s not what you think, kiddo, they don’t let you off easy, they ignore you. You don’t exist to them.’ _The horribleness of that thought sank in and Lucifer suddenly felt very, very disgusted with their family._

_“Don’t worry about me, El,” Jimmy said quietly._

_“I’ll worry about you if I want to,” Castiel muttered._

_“Shut up and write your dumb paragraph.”_

_Castiel huffed but picked up a pencil again, roughly yanking a notebook toward him._

_Lucifer backed out of the doorway, leaving the twins to their homework, heart an aching stone in his chest._

…

                  Claire shook her head, “I can’t believe they fought about anything…”

                  Lucifer snorted, “Really? Have you seen them together?  It was gonna happen eventually.”

                  “What to you mean?” Claire asked shrewdly.

                  Her uncle shrugged, “Something had to give there, you can’t rely on someone else that much, the tension just builds and builds until something just…breaks.” Lucifer clicked his tongue, imitating the ‘breaking’ sound. 

                  “And what’s your excuse?” Claire asked, apparently in the throes of temporary insanity and willing to risk baiting the (possibly) homicidal maniac. 

                  But Lucifer wasn’t looking particularly hostile.  In fact, her comment made him throw his head back and laugh, “And what do you mean by that?” 

                  She shrugged, movements controlled, a little wary of this explosion of emotion from him, “What’s your excuse?  What had to break for you to land yourself in here?”

                  “What makes you think I don’t want to spend the rest of my days here, talking about my feelings and playing ping pong with the loonies?” 

                  “Really?” She gave him a flat look and he laughed again.

                  “You don’t take BS from anyone, I like that!”

                  “Nice job avoiding the question.”

                  “Wow, Jimmy trained you well, what are you gonna be once you get out of high school hell? Lawyer, like your dad? Get scumbags like me tossed in the loony bin with nothing but safety scissors and glitter glue for protection?” he snorted, “At least in prison they give you sporks.” 

                  “I’m pretty sure they stopped doing that,” Claire deadpanned.

                  “Really?” he said mock-superciliously. 

                  “The spork is considered a deadly instrument in the state of Alaska.”

                  “How about that,” he muttered, a glint of humor skirting the edges of his gaze.

                  “You still haven’t answered the question.”

                  “And what was that question, again?  Remind me.”

                  She rolled her eyes at him, clearly telegraphing just how much she bought of his wide-eyed absent-minded act, “What made _you_ snap? What pushed you over the edge?”       

                  “Writing a research paper on me, are we?”

                  She shrugged, “Sure, why not?  I’m taking a Law Studies class right now, we’re doing case studies…”

                  He laughed again, “I like you!  Go ahead, use my case, interview away, use me shamelessly, I think there’s irony in here somewhere but I’m too busy laughing to give a shit!” 

                  “I’ll use your case if and when you bother to answer the question.”

                  He calmed down, catching his breath and shaking his head wryly, “No, no, you’ve got it all jumbled. You’re buying the BS they spewed in court.  And I’m here telling you, all that stuff was _bull-shit_. Still is.  I didn’t _snap._ There wasn’t some fancy psychotic break, real life isn’t like tv, it’s a hell of a lot messier.”

                  “You’re telling me,” Claire muttered.

                  He grinned at her, a bright, tight, gleam of teeth that faded as quickly as it appeared. “It wasn’t a moment, it was a thousand moments and it wasn’t an intent or a need or anything, it just was what it was and at the time I think I just sort of accepted that it was happening. It sort of felt inevitable, like things were always gonna end this way, nothing could stop them, least of all me. And I wasn’t okay with that, but it felt right anyway.” 

                  Claire was entranced, watching her uncle pace like a caged predator.  “What did you do?  I couldn’t find any details in the records…”

                  “Then you didn’t look hard enough or far enough or maybe old Jimmy-boy did a good enough job squashing it that no one heard the nasty little details,” Lucifer’s grin had an air or rigor mortis about it now, like his face had somehow gotten stuck that way and behind his eyes he was screaming in pain as he tried to wrench his mouth back into its regular shape. 

                  “What, what _happened_?” Claire demanded.

                  Lucifer shrugged, “I was a white-collar criminal.  Rob from the rich, no one gets hurt.  Most of the time.  Eh. A job went bad. A guy got shot. I got arrested. That’s it.”

                  “Did the guy die?” she demanded, not meaning to be callous but absolutely _sure_ there was more to this story than her uncle was telling her.

                  “Nope, but he did disappear from the hospital, all very mysterious.  All very gang-related.” 

                  “So he was part of a gang?”

                  “Probably a branch of the mob.  Who knows. It was just a job, it just went really bad.”  Lucifer looked like he regretted the hints he’d dropped earlier, his shoulders were hunched up tightly in some sort of weird permanent shrug. 

                  “But what was the big deal?” Claire asked.

                  “Big deal?!” Lucifer yelped, “I SHOT A GUY!  SHOT! With BULLETS! Pew-pew-pew-POW! How are you not getting this? Wow, violent video games really have ruined this generation.” 

                  Claire just rolled her eyes, “Are you done?”

                  Miffed his theatrics didn’t even garner a tiny jolt of surprise, Lucifer mumbled, “Yes.”

                  “Good. Because really, what was the big deal about this particular crime?  Other than the shooting-a-guy thing.  Or maybe because… I mean; you’d been involved in organized crime for a while, it’s not like this was your first arrest. Why did Jim- _Dad_ , step in with the insanity plea this time? What info did he have to bury? And why were he and Cas fighting?”

                  “That’s a lot of questions I’m 42% sure I can’t answer.” 

                  “Can’t or won’t?”

                  “Won’t, but I’m saying ‘can’t’ so you feel better about your attempts to convince me.”

                  “Okay, how about one?”

                  “One question?”

                  “Yeah, one question and you have to answer it truthfully.” 

                  Lucifer nodded contemplatively, “Okay, deal, kid.  Shoot.”

                  “What was special about this particular crime that made both Dad and Cas care about it so much?”

                  Lucifer raised his eyebrows, “Well, that’s a one carefully phrased question, kid. Okay, here it is, the victim, the guy I shot (but didn’t kill, thank you) looked a lot like our Dad. That’s why Jimmy and El reacted the way they did.  Because it looked a lot like I’d killed our Dad.”

                  “The Dad you’d spent years searching for?”       

                  “You’re out of questions, kid.”

                  “That’s ok, it was rhetorical.”

                  “Fair enough.”

…

                  _“Hold still.”_

_“Ack, just leave it, El, it’s not a big deal  – ”_

_“Stop.”_

_“Seriously – ”_

_“Stop.”_

_“You don’t have to – ” Lucifer bit off the last word, nearly choking on in in surprise as Castiel slammed his fist into the table top beside them._

_“_ Shut up _, Lucifer,” Castiel grit out, not looking at him, tossing aside the antiseptic wipe he had been swiping across the cuts on his older brother’s face and picking up a tube of Neosporin._

_But of course, shutting up didn’t run in the Novak blood.   “Kid, kiddo, kiddie,_ El _, you don’t need to do – ”_

_Castiel paused a moment, distracted by the bright red blood dribbling down his own knuckles.  The skin had split when he punched the table.  “Lucifer, please stop.”  Castiel’s voice was small and soft._

_Lucifer nodded, eyes transfixed, following the path of a single drop of blood running down his brother’s fingers._

_Castiel blinked and looked up at him, surprised by his silence, “Thank you.”_

_Lucifer nodded mutely._

_Castiel tipped his head to the side, watching him curiously in that strange, birdlike way of his.  “You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you?”_

_“I thought I was supposed to shut up,” Lucifer muttered mutinously. He could already feel the skin tightening around his eye as his bruises swelled._

_Castiel just stared at him with those big, mournful blue eyes. He was so young. Twelve years was not enough time to be a child.  At twelve years old he shouldn’t be patching his older brother up after a bar fight. He should be…fuck…what did twelve year olds_ do _? Lucifer couldn’t remember._

_Castiel sighed and went back to dabbing Neosporin onto his brother’s cuts. “Rings.”_

_“What?”_

_“He was wearing rings.”_

_“Who?”_

_“Whoever decorated your face.”_

_“Could’ve been a she,” Lucifer muttered mutinously._

_Castiel gave him a flat look, the kind that clearly asked if Lucifer_ really _thought El was_ that _stupid, “The bruising is too spread out for a woman’s hands.”_

_“Women can have big hands.”_

_“And conversations can be uncommonly asinine.”_

_“I see you’ve been reading,” Lucifer commented wryly._

_“You_ saw _nothing,” Castiel corrected, “You_ heard _the word asinine.  And this whole business is arsenic.”_

_“Huh, never thought of poisoning anyone, I’ll take that suggestion under advisement,” Lucifer joked._

_“It’s a color,” Castiel squished on the Neosporin with a little more force. Lucifer didn’t give him the satisfaction of wincing._

_Neither brother spoke until Castiel started unwrapping Band-Aids._

_“Mother tried to poison us while you were gone,” Castiel began conversationally._

_“What?” Lucifer jerked slightly, wrinkling the bandage Castiel was trying to place._

_“She mixed up the oil for her brushes and the olive oil,” Castiel said flatly._

_“Why was she cooking?” Lucifer demanded._

_Castiel shrugged, “Jimmy was late coming home from school.”_

_“No one_ else _thought to cook dinner?”_

_“No one else was home.  Well, Zachariah was. But he would rather complain about things other people do than have other people be satisfied with what he does,” Castiel observed acerbically._

_Lucifer laughed, “And you…?”_

_“I am banned from the kitchen.  Rafael took exception to the hamper full of singed dish towels.”_

_Lucifer howled with laughter.  Castiel waited patiently until the cackles had died down before applying another Band Aid._

_“That’s pretty damn funny,” Lucifer giggled._

_“Except for the part where he had to call poison control,” Castiel reminded him tartly._

_“Well, yeah, there’s that,” Lucifer shuffled his feet uncomfortably. There was a slightly lull in the conversation and he could feel the discomfort begin to creep in. He threw more words at it, trying to keep it at bay.  “You know, El, if things are getting bad here, with Mom…”_

_“Lucifer,” his little brother cut him off and something in that one word made Lucifer clam up._

_“Lucifer, you need to make up your mind.  Either you’re here with us or you’re out there looking for Father. You stay or you go. Jimmy says you’re trying your best but that’s absurd.  You’re not trying your best at_ anything. _You’re half-assing being part of this family and you’re half-assing looking for father and you’re not even doing a particularly good job of being a criminal,” Castiel’s young voice was even and controlled, the swear words sitting uncomfortably on his tongue but each syllable spoken with complete assurance, “So figure it out and do_ something _all the way. Stay or go.  I don’t care,” that was a lie, but it was the only one, “But make up your mind and actually do your best,” he sighed, his voice getting soft and sad, “I’m done being everyone’s fall back option. I’m already going to spend my whole life as Jimmy’s understudy.  I don’t need to be your little brother only when it’s convenient.”_

_And with that, Castiel placed the last Band Aid on Lucifer’s face, packed up the first aid kit and walked out of the room.  It wasn’t until he was gone that Lucifer realized he should have offered to clean up El’s knuckles.  They were still dripping blood from where he punched the table.  Instead Lucifer just stared at the little spots of blood where Castiel’s hand had dripped blood across the tabletop.  Little polka-dots dark as wine, already dried and flaking like so much rust._

_Lucifer there staring at that table for a long time._

_He left a few days later, chasing down some shady guys who might know somebody who knew somebody who might know about somebody who may have run some shady deals with his dad.  And when he showed back up at the house a week or two later it was Jimmy who answered the door and offered him a sandwich and an ice pack for his bruised face. Castiel just walked away._

…

                  “What’re you thinking about?” Dean’s voice crept through the fog that had wrapped around Castiel’s brain, clearing away the cobwebs and shadows. 

                  “Life, the universe, and everything,” Castiel said gravely.

                  “No shit,” Dean deadpanned. 

                  Castiel peered at him out of the corner of his eye.  They had rearranged themselves.  Cas now perched on the arm of the couch, sketchbook propped on his knee, a small mountain pastels staining the already hopelessly discolored sofa cushion beside him.  Dean still sat on the other end of the couch, feet up, the arm of the sofa at his back as he read a dogeared copy of AngelFall book 1.  Cas had ceased trying to convince Dean that the books were really garbage and not worth reading. He just side-eyed the paperbacks with a pained look on his face when he knew Dean was watching.

                  “So, oh great and powerful sage steeped in wisdom –” Dean grinned at him, a teasing light playing with the gold flecks in his green eyes, “any great revelations for us lesser mortals?”

                  “No,” Cas said mournfully, playing along, “Enlightenment is elusive today.”

                  “Nice alliteration.”

                  “Nice use of polysyllabic words.”

                  “Hey now – ”

                  “Really, it’s very nice to see your college education at work.  Just imagine, you and your thesaurus-like brain shape the lives of impressionable young people every day – ”

                  “Hey, careful with the hurtful words or you’ll have an _impression_ of this book in your face,” Dean grinned. 

                  Castiel laughed, a gentle rumble like distant thunder and warm rain. 

                  “You’re such a little shit,” Dean said fondly, watching the other man’s mischievous expression, “you’ve been spending way too much time with Sam and Gabe.”

                  “Too true, too true,” Castiel acquiesced softly.

                  A moment of silence slid over them, easy and smooth and not awkward in the slightest. A gift, it was, to be able to simply exist in each other’s space like this.  Castiel honestly hadn’t thought he’d ever have this again, not since he’d been called onstage to play out act 2 of Jimmy’s life.  You just couldn’t have peace like this when everything about you is a lie.  But here it was, and it was so good, Amethyst or maybe Alice Blue, and _why the fuck_ did Lucifer have to come back and disrupt it all?

                  He flexed his good hand, the one not attached to an arm full of burn scars, and imagined he could see a faint discoloration staining his skin from where he punched the kitchen table all those years ago.  It was impossible, of course.  But still. He thought about it sometimes.

                  “So what were you thinking about?” Dean’s voice was gentle, worming its way under the skin of his thoughts and staying there like a splinter or maybe a needle; yes, a needle and thread trying to sew up some sutures where Cas was trying to rip an open wound even farther open. 

                  Castiel turned his head, meeting Dean’s eyes with a sad, ironic little smile, “I was thinking about how no one in my family can cook without pyrotechnics or calls to poison control.” 

…

                  Claire’s time was up and the attendant was herding her toward the door when she turned back and looked Lucifer in the eye, “Hey, you.”

                  “Yeah?” he raised an eyebrow sardonically and she was reminded of Cas when he first woke up or was feeling particularly cranky. 

                  “There’s some stuff...you’ve missed a lot since you came here.  Especially with the family.  I’m not really the right person to tell you what’s happened, so please, please call my dad as soon as you can.  Or maybe I’ll try to get him to visit you, I dunno.  Just, here.  She ripped a piece of paper out of a little notebook Cas had given her to carry around with her to jot things down into.  Grocery lists, quotes she liked, books she needed to look up, due dates for assignments, her own terrible attempts at poetry, whatever she needed. Now she scribbled the bookstore’s number (she was 93% positive Cas and Dean would be pissed if she just handed out their cell numbers willy-nilly, Cas because he hated phones and wasn’t sold on the redeeming qualities of most of humanity, Dean because cops, even retired ones, were extraordinarily paranoid when it came to handing out personal information) on the scrap of paper.  She shoved it at Lucifer and stared him down until he took it. 

                  “Call my dad. When he doesn’t answer like a normal person keep asking for him until he shuts up and talks to you or gets weird and hangs up.  If the second option happens, keep caling until he gets pissed enough to talk to you.  If someone else answers the phone just keep asking for my dad until they hand over the phone.  Caspisce?”

                  Blinking, a little thrown by her disclaimer, Lucifer nodded. “Aye, aye, captain.”

                  “Awesomesauce. I’ll see you later, then.” She threw him a look, like she wanted to say more but the words escaped her mind before she could trap them behind her lips.  Then she was gone and Lucifer was left staring at a ragged chunk of her stationary, burning with curiosity. 

…

                  “So how’d it go?” Krissy singsonged the minute Claire appeared, marching up to her, eyes narrowed like she thought Claire might try to hide the details of her meeting with the Devil if Krissy’s interrogation wasn’t thorough enough.

                  Ben read her mood a little more closely, easing into her space and sliding an arm around her shoulders, providing her with a solid, steady presence to lean on as she reflected on her conversation with the one family member she’d always assumed was completely out of reach.  Admittedly, most of their family was pretty freaking disconnected, but she’d always supposed she’d eventually get to go with Cas when he visited his mother in the mental hospital, and Zachariah and Rafael still sent the obligatory obnoxious (in all the wrong ways) Christmas cards and several-weeks-late birthday cards. And yeah, Cas’ dad was kind of a giant question mark but somehow that made him seem sort of…fake. Like Santa Claus, a presence but not a reality.  Lucifer was a reality.  Just not one she’d ever thought she’d encounter until recently. 

                  “It was…weird,” she said. Krissy raised a questioning eyebrow and Ben gently squeezed Claire’s shoulder, “Yeah, really weird,” she continued, “not a bad weird, just…weird.” 

                  “Weird like the rest of your family weird?”  Krissy asked as they made their way through the parking lot to the car. 

                  “Or weird like ‘this guy’s an extra from a Stephen King movie’?” Ben asked, releasing his girlfriend to unlock the car doors.  Claire found herself missing his warmth.

                  “Kind of a mix of the two?  He seems pretty harmless. Dean could take him in a fist fight.”

                  “Well if _Dean_ could kick his ass,” Krissy said with a mocking eyeroll.

                  Claire shrugged, “I’m pretty sure none of us are going to end up murdered in our beds.”

                  “No, really, continue to assure us of your safety, you’re doing a great job keeping us from worrying about you,” Ben said dryly as they loaded back into the car.

                  “Oh my god, guys,” Claire laughed, “It’s gonna be _fine._ I think he’ll fit right in, actually, if he and dad can get over their issues it should all be copacetic.”

                  “Cool beans, call us if you need a funeral home, oh, wait, no, you’ll be _dead_!” Krissy snarked, but her comments held less sting and more humor now.  All three teens laughed until Claire caught sight of the sinking sun out the window.

                  “Oh shit, we’re gonna have to hurry home if we don’t want to get skinned alive for this.”

                  Ben stepped on the gas.

                  They got about an hour into their trip back before a flat tire forced them to pull over and Claire to call the one number she swore she’d never call in an emergency.

…

                  Gabriel Shurley was not having a scintillating day.  His car was still in the shop because an intern or a trainee or whatever they called the new and the stupid in the auto repair business screwed something up royally and now he had to wait another three days for them to fix a problem that shouldn’t have been there in the first place.  Sam was right; he really should have just let Dean tinker with the thing until it started running right.  That wouldn’t have cost as much and by this point it’d have been faster to boot.

                  So, carless and in desperate need of a new table for the bakery (what was it with idiot youths breaking his shit, the table would NOT HAVE BEEN AN ISSUE if the new kid admitted he need fucking glasses and stopped knocking things over and _breaking Gabriel’s stuff_ ) he was stuck running to a thousand different furniture stores with none other than Sam model-of-perfect-health-and-shampoo-commercial-quality-hair Winchester. Which wouldn’t have been so bad. If it wasn’t furniture shopping. And Sam didn’t have the more boring taste on the planet.  And an insane need to keep trying to help. 

                  Gabriel gave up on attempting to explain to Sam that he did not actually need his opinion on the problems inherent in the purchase of thrift shop furnishings after the first hour.

                  Frankly, when Gabe’s cell rang in the middle of the afternoon a horrible part of him almost hoped the bakery had caught fire just so he’d have an excuse to go home and stay there and avoid the question of hardwood over wrought iron indefinitely.

                  “Yello?”

                  “Hi, Uncle Gabe,” Claire’s voice crackled over the line and Gabe’s curiosity was piqued. Putting his pseudo-niece on speakerphone he traced the GPS on her cell phone to a very interesting location indeed.

                  “…So we kind of need a ride back to town.  And a spare tire. Since there isn’t one in this car. Apparently.  Yeah, we suck at planning.” 

                  Gabe chuckled, “Oooh, missy, you just made my _day!_ ”

                  A pause, “…That does not sound good.”

                  “Not for you, _chica_!” Gabe crowed, “You and your _amigos_ are gonna be in _deep shit_ once Papa Novak finds out where you kiddos have been.”

                  “How…? Crap, I forgot to disable GPS on my new phone, didn’t I?”

                  “Yep,” Gabe cackled, “And here’s the icing on the cake, Sammy’s my chauffer for the day since some moron screwed up my car _again_. So there’s _no way_ you’re getting out of this one.”

                  “You’re enjoying this way too much,” Claire said flatly.                 

                  “I’ve had a day chock full of tiny irritations, time to dish out some misery-by-proxy!”

                  She sighed, making the phone line buzz and crackle momentarily, “Fine.  Just please come get us.”

                  “Right behind you, _mi niña bonita_!”

                  “And for the love of god, please stop trying to sound like Carlito.” 

                  “But that movie’s _awesome._ ”

                  “That’s it, no more cable tv after 10.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, it’s been way too long since I updated this. My only excuse is that I got really sick, was on antibiotics for a few weeks then got better just in time for work to get crazy. Yeah, yeah, same old, same old. The point is, to make it up to you guys for keeping you waiting, here’s an extra long chapter! I hope you liked it! :)  
> As always, thank you for reading, you’re all spectacular. If you have a sliver of time, please do review, I love hearing from you guys!   
> PS, the chapter title is a line from Taylor Swift’s song “All Too Well”.


	6. I Know My Head’s to Blame (for all my heart’s mistakes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys…I’m back. *shuffles feet guiltily then hides in corner* Yeah, I know, long break between updates, I’m horrible. Really, I am genuinely sorry about the huge gap between updates this time. The truth is, I spent the past few months working on my original writing. I got very wrapped up in a big project and just couldn’t divide my attention between it and my fanfiction so I decided to put my fanfic on hold until I finished my original project. That work is mostly finished now so I’m back to writing about these lovely characters! Updates should be a bit more regular from here on out, but I’m not promising anything (I’ve learned my lesson, as soon as I make promises, something crazy happens and I prove myself wrong, *sigh*)
> 
> As always, I appreciate all the support everyone has given me, thank you from the bottom of my heart for sticking with this story for this long!!!
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH EVERYONE WHO HAS KUDOS-ED, BOOKMARKED, OR COMMENTED ON THIS STORY!!! You guys make me smile :)

**Chapter 5: I Know My Head’s to Blame (for all my heart’s mistakes)**

            Claire wasn’t sure which was worse: Sam’s dark, disapproving glower or Gabriel’s sharp-edged smirk. 

“You’re in so much trouble!” Gabe sang, grinning. 

            “Not if you don’t say anything,” Krissy grumbled.

            “Not a chance, missy!” Gabe was positively _glowing_ with vindictive joy.

            “Any chance bribery might smooth this over?” Ben asked, tone joking but a little hopeful despite himself, “I think I might have a five dollar bill and a pack of gum in the glovebox.”

            “There’s a jolly rancher in the back seat!” Claire sweetened the deal; smile awkward and full of just how aware she was of what a terrible situation the kids had landed themselves in.

            “Noooo, there isn’t,” Krissy said, rocking on her heels and peering at the sky as if it held all the answers in the universe. 

            “Krissy,” Ben’s voice was flatter than their tire, “Did you eat the Jolly Rancher?”

            “Umm, yes, that would be a yes.” 

            “That thing is over three years old!  I was going for a record!”

            “As enlightening as that mildly disturbing revelation was, how about you guys load up and we swap out your tire with our spare?” Sam offered. “Oh, and Claire, your father will hear about this.”

            “Fine, Draco, fifty points from Slytherin,” Claire grumbled, but got out of the way as Sam popped his car’s back hatch, retrieved first, the tools, then the spare tire, and got to work on Ben’s poor, abused car. Gabe offered to help in the gleeful, halfhearted manner of the friend who is fully aware of how useless they are in this situation and are just offering their assistance so they can laugh at your efforts with a clear conscience after you refuse aid.

            But Sam didn’t reject the proffered help.  Instead, he smiled maliciously and said, “Thanks, Gabe, I really appreciate the offer.  Why don’t you hold this?” He then proceeded to hand Gabriel the enormous (and extremely heavy) tool box.  The teens learned some new swear words that day.

            The tire was swapped for Sam’s spare against the backdrop of off-tune Winchester humming and unnecessarily-loud Shurley muttering.

            “Well, Dean would have done a better job,” Sam said after a while, rocking back on his heels to regard the youngsters, “But it’ll get you back to town. Although-“

            “-It would have served you right if we just stranded your asses and made you call a tow truck,” Gabriel finished the sentence for him and relinquished the tool kit with his customary style, class, and shit-eating grin.

            “That was not exactly what I was going for, _Gabe_ ,” Sam said, “But the point is valid.  And all of you are in such deep trouble they’ll have to send an excavation team to get you out.”

            “ _Great_ ,” Ben sighed.

            “Your idea,” Krissy pointed out again.

            “No, guys, this is on me,” Claire said, “It was my crazy uncle we decided to go visit, my fucked up family.  Really,” she laughed a little hollowly, “No one but the Novaks, right? We just don’t do normal, do we?”

            Gabe and Sam traded looks.  Claire’s little adventure wasn’t all Cas and Dean would be hearing about. It sounded like the littlest Novak had been bottling up some stuff that really shouldn’t stay bottled.

            “Hey-“ Ben began, voice soft, reaching for his girlfriend’s hand, uncertainty in his eyes, “We’re part of this too, not everything’s your fault, Novak.”

            “Damn straight,” Krissy echoed, folding her arms across her chest.

            “They’re right,” Sam said gently, “And yes, you’re all still in trouble. Ben, Krissy, hop in Ben’s car and follow us back, Claire, you’re riding with us.”

            Claire winced theatrically but her eyes were soft when they met Sam’s, “Wow, harsh, Sammy.” 

            “Just get in the car,” Sam chuckled, “Dean’ll skin me if we’re not back in time to pick up dinner.” 

            “Right-o,” Claire grimaced and followed them. 

            Time to go home and face the wrath of Cas.

…

            Castiel could hear the phone ringing downstairs in the bookstore. He glared at the floor, hoping the horrid contraption would somehow gain sentience and enough telepathy to pick up his mental commands to cease and desist its annoying noise-making.

            No such luck.

            Dammit.

            Making a vague motion at Dean, who just nodded absently, Cas tromped downstairs to answer the stupid phone. 

            “What?” Castiel snapped.  He had been having a very nice day doing nothing, now this phone came along and demanded he _do_ something. Rude indeed. 

            _“Hey, baby brother.”_

Cas hung up the phone, fingers leaping away from the handset as if singed.  He stared at the device, watching the seconds tremble and fall away. 

            The phone rang again.

            Castiel considered not answering it.  Just letting the damn thing ring and ring and ring.  But like a magnet his hand drifted back in place and he was back to square one.

            “What?”

            _“I’ve missed our talks. Just chatting…it’s nice,”_ Lucifer said playfully, _“Now, I hear something messy’s gone down with the fam since my unfortunate incarceration. Care to share, Jimmy- John?”_

Castiel’s brain went blank. Completely and utterly. All he could do was stand there, fingers tensing and relaxing in a strange rhythmic motion on the handset, the plastic creaking and squeaking beneath his hand. 

            _“Heeeey, Jiiiiimmyyy.”_

Cas couldn’t speak. There were words somewhere…else. Somewhere beyond here, beyond him, but they weren’t his and he couldn’t seem to catch them, syllables tumbling through the holes in his mental net and fluttering away, leaving his mouth sandy and dry. Not knowing what else to do, he moved to hang up. 

            _“Hey, no, no, no. Jimmy, Jim, baby bro, don’t just hang up on me.  I mean, come on, Cas would pull that shit but not you, right?”_

Castiel froze.

            Lucifer was still talking, _“I mean, come on, we’ve_ talked _and_ emoted _and_ hugged it out _or whatever your Dr. Phil du jour says.”_

“Oprah.”

            _“What?  Ha!  You are talking! This is us, chatting. Isn’t this nice? Baby steps, baby steps, Jimmy.”_

“Oprah. It was Oprah, not Dr. Phil.”

            _“Sure, sure, watch it every Sunday, I don’t care, we’re talking! Like real people! Yes! Mission almost accomplished, we’re nearly playing nicely.”_

“What do you want, Lucifer?”

            _“Ok, harsh, a little frosty, but I can work with that.  And what do I want? What do I ever want?”_

Castiel wasn’t sure he was supposed to answer that question and was fairly certain he couldn’t manage it without a sarcastic comment.  So he bit his tongue and hoped Lucifer would get tired of their little chat soon. Very soon.

            And dammit, Jimmy watched Oprah, not Dr. Phil.  Cas tried and failed to avoid resenting his elder brother a little for forgetting that no matter how irrational remembering it in the first place was.

            Lucifer had apparently neither wanted nor needed a response; he was still chattering on, _“I just want a little info on what the family’s been up to.  Your kid was here earlier today and dropped a cryptic hint or two and I decided to give my fav baby bro a call-“_

Castiel had never been frozen alive, never had hypothermia, but he was fairly certain this would be what it felt like to have ice in his veins.  He felt like his heart was beating very slowly and from very far away, a smoky gray shot through with electric blue overtaking his vision and his blood wouldn’t turn, his heart was beating but there were glaciers in his veins and nothing was working right. 

            “Claire.”

            _“Yeah, nice girl, good kid.”_

“Came to visit you. Claire.”

            _“Yeah, we had a little chat. It was nice.  Nothing cozier than a mental institution, for all your family reunion needs.”_

“Earlier today, my Claire.”

            _“Jimmy, you okay there, baby bro?”_

“God-fucking-dammit,” Castiel snarled, teeth tight, empty hand clenching and unclenching into a fist at his side. 

            _“Shit, she didn’t tell you, did she?”_

“Goodbye, Lucifer,” Castiel ground the words into a fine powder between his teeth, his back very straight, each muscle coiled tight and humming with furious energy.

            _“Yeah, crap, toodles Jimmy.”_

Cas did not dignify that with a response.  Instead he hung up and very calmly and with perfect aim and control, flung the cordless phone against the nearest wall. 

…

            The other two wayward teenagers relinquished to the not-so-tender mercies of their parents, Claire found herself riding with Sam and Gabe to the nearest (and only) pizza place in Orcastle.  Run by a cadaverously thin man who dressed like an undertaker and had the complexion of a particularly pallid Count Dracula, _Slice of Life Pizzeria_ was the most popular take-out place in the area. Being the only take-out place in the area certainly helped. 

            Sam, who had never liked the restaurant’s skeletal proprietor, opted to stay with Claire in the car while Gabe bounced in to retrieve their customary Saturday night pizza and beer, complete with a green salad for Sam. Once Gabe’s inane chatter vacated the vehicle, Sam found himself confronted with the horrible soul-sucking vacuum of an awkward silence.  He held himself very still, wary and half-convinced that the slightest twitch from him would destroy his image as an adult authority figure.  Sam didn’t have much experience with kids.

            Finally, the smothering quiet became unbearable. Smacking his palm restlessly against the steering wheel, Sam turned to the girl in the seat beside him. Claire had ridden shotgun for this particular trip (Sam suspected the seating arrangement was so Gabe could take all three back seats and contort himself into a vaguely nap-like position for the ride back to civilization and sanity (relatively speaking, of course). Claire now sat, shoulders slumped, blonde hair falling in shining curtains around her small, pale face, studying her fingernails as if they were the most fascinating things in the world. She hadn’t pulled her phone out and immediately started texting, which Sam drew some satisfaction from, although he did get the weird vibe that she was punishing herself ‘just in case’ her guardians went too easy on her.

            “Why did you do it?” Sam found himself asking, almost of his own volition.

            “What?” Claire feigned being caught off guard but Sam knew an act when he saw one. After all, patients lied to their doctors all the time.  He knew how to spot the signs.

            “Why did you do it?” Sam repeated the question.  Just a handful of words, no more, no less. His tone was level and even, not a speck of pride or judgment to be found. 

            “I guess I wanted to know him, before he came to live with us. I wanted him to be something more than a complete stranger.” 

            ‘I just wanted to know’ was a powerful motivator for someone so young.

            Sam pressed his lips together and bit down on the words that wanted to escape his mouth.  _Think about this rationally, Winchester. God knows Dean won’t. And Cas…does Cas think about_ anything _rationally?_ Okay, that wasn’t fair.  But still, time to stop reacting and think about this from Claire’s perspective.  What would he have done in her position? 

            He winced internally.

            “I would have done the exact same thing at your age,” he admitted, not quite willing to meet her eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the pizzeria just beyond the windshield, watching Gabe bounce his way through the ordering process then fidget his way around the waiting area. 

            Beside him he heard Claire inhale once, sharp and tight. He’d surprised her, then. “That wasn’t what I was expecting,” the girl admitted, voice rueful and Sam realized with a sad twist that she was growing up.  It was strange to think about, that this girl he’d first met as a gangly adolescent was slowly becoming a grown-up person with her own hopes and wishes and regrets.

            “I bet it wasn’t,” Sam said, feeling his eyes crinkle at the corners, even though he wasn’t quite smiling, “But just because I’d have done the same dumb thing at seventeen doesn’t mean that the dumb thing is still okay.”

            “There’s the responsible adult we know and love,” she muttered, a stereotypical teenager for once.

            “Hey, no sulking.  This is a serious conversation.  Claire,” Sam huffed a sigh and turned to look at her for the first time, steeling himself against the helpless tears welling at the corners of her blue eyes, “What did you think would happen here?  That you’d sneak off, chat with Lucifer and sneak back home in time for dinner? And Cas and Dean would never find out? Give me a break, you’re smarter than that.”

            “So what, you’re saying I wanted to get caught?  That’s stupid!” 

            “Claire.” Sam’s tone was even but firm. She settled, shoulders slumping out of their defensive pose. 

            “Sorry.”

            “Look at me, Claire.  Yeah, if I were in your position when I was seventeen I’d have snuck off and done the same thing. But you know why I wouldn’t do it now?”

            She didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking why but waited patiently for him to answer his own question.

            “Because I know now that it would be selfish and cause a lot of pain for good people who didn’t deserve to feel that way.” 

            “But no one was supposed to know!” Claire burst out and Sam stared her down.

            “You think Lucifer wouldn’t mention your little excursion to your dad at some point?  Come on, Claire, he’s going to be _living with you_ , the man may be crazy but he’s not stupid!” 

            “Cas or Lucifer?” Claire asked wryly, trying to save the conversation, turn it into a joke, but Sam was having none of that.

            “Don’t change the subject, I’m not done.  Claire, you should know by now that secrets don’t get you anywhere. Did what happened four years ago mean nothing to you?  It wouldn’t matter that everything had been fine, that you were safe now; when Cas eventually found out about you going to see Lucifer without him…it would have hurt him, Claire; and you know it.  And if he and Dean had clued into your absence today they would have been apoplectic with worry. They trust you, it may not seem that way, but they do, and to throw their trust in their faces like that, running off without telling them where you were going?  What if something had happened to you?  What you did, it was cruel.  You may not have meant it that way, but too bad.”

            Sam sighed and ran a hand through is unruly hair.  He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore. He was probably screwing this up royally, but he felt like the kid needed a healthy dose of perspective before she faced the wrath of Cas and Dean.  “Claire, you’ve got to start thinking about cause and effect.  How will what you do effect the people around you?”

            “But sometimes knowing that’s impossible.”

            “Nothing’s impossible, Claire,” Gabe’s voice startled them both, although Sam hid it better.  They’d been so wrapped up in their discussion they hadn’t noticed the little man exit the pizzeria and slide back into the car, loaded down with pizza and salad.

            “How much did you hear, Gabe?” Sam asked ruefully, a little ashamed of his clumsy attempts at being the adult here.

            “Meh, enough,” there was a shrug in Gabe’s voice and a lighthearted bounce to his words, “Sam’s right, Claire-bear.  Part of being a grown-up is paying attention to the other humans on this big green bouncy-ball.  Because that’s what makes or breaks you.  Always know what effect you’re gonna produce.”

            “That’s a bit much coming from you,” Claire grumbled but Sam could see a general softening in her posture.

            Gabe snorted, “Have you been paying any attention that past decade, kiddie? Everything I _do_ is about effect.  I know _exactly_ what reactions I’m gonna get.  The difference is, I want to make a splash; I want to stir things up.  But I’ll tell you, when I was younger I was utter _shit_ at knowing when to stop,” he whistled, “I made a lot of enemies that way. And I hurt people. But one day, someone gave me the reality check I needed and I started paying attention to what I was doing for once. And I figured some things out. That’s not to say I didn’t screw up magnificently a few times (because everything about me is magnificent, obviously, even my screw-ups) but I got better. And that’s how _you_ got to have this conversation with this magnificent example of manhood today.”

            “Creepy, Gabe,” Sam muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

            “You, shut up,” Gabe said, smacking him on the side of the head with the salad box.

            “Hey, be gentle with the salad.”

            Gabe smacked him one more time for good measure.

            Claire smiled a watery little smile, “I kinda owe Dad an apology, don’t I?”

            “Dean-o too,” Gabe sing-songed, waving the box of salad carelessly and pulling it out of the way when Sam lunged for it. 

            Claire sighed, “Dean too.”

            “And talk things out with your dad,” Sam advised, “If you make it clear why you want to know about your uncle and why it’s important to you, he’ll probably be a lot more open about things.  He’s trying, Claire.  I know he is,” he paused, glaring at Gabriel as the little man hit him with the box of salad again and pulled away snickering, “GABRIEL NOVAK, I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU KEEP ABUSING MY SALAD, I WILL END YOU!” 

            “He’s mad,” Gabe whispered conspiratorially, cackling madly as Sam finally wrestled the slightly dented box of salad away from him. 

            Lettuce liberated and settled on the center console, Sam turned his attention back to the humans in the car, “Time to go home?”

            “Time to go home,” Claire agreed, “I need to talk to my dad.”

            “Saaaaam,” Gabe whined, “Gimme back my box!”

            “No.”

            “It was a fine and noble weapon.”

            “No, Gabe, hands off the salad,” a pause and then: “Did you seriously refer to the earth as a ‘big green bouncy ball’?” 

…

            Cas sat on the counter, in the dark, and stared at the wall pensively. He tried not to pay attention to the nauseatingly Mikado Yellow feeling gnawing at his gut. Claire had gone to see Lucifer today. Cas tried to close his eyes on the images the fear tearing at his brain called up but his lids just kept popping right back open, the news report from all those years ago playing across his eyes over and over again.

            _“-a shooting-”_

_“-a single gunman-”_

_“-taken into custody-”_

_“-Lucifer Novak-”_

            _“-The victim, an as-yet unidentified, middle-aged Caucasian male-”_

_“-footage from security cameras clearly show-”_

_“-the shooting itself-”_

_“-Lucifer Novak-”_

_“-Lucifer-”_

_“-Luc-”_

_“-Novak-”_

_And then on endless repeat, those few seconds of security footage the news had shown.  Lucifer, obviously agitated, a gun in his hand.  He’d looked surprised and then, maybe, scared.  And then there was the bullet flying and blood splattering and the other man in the frame had twisted, spun when the bullet hit him, and his face was there, clear as day and Castiel had felt his heart seize in his chest. His father stared back at him, washed-out, his whole being bleached artificially pale by the poor film quality._

_And then he was falling and Castiel was, for an impossible, eternal, second, completely and utterly sure he’d just watched his elder brother murder their father on the local news network._

Back in the bookstore Castiel clenched his fingers around the edge of the counter, letting the sharp corner press deep furrows into his hands as he fought back the image of blonde hair and a young girl instead of a middle-aged man.  

His father had blond hair. It was darker than Claire’s. Hers was more like Amelia’s.

Castiel shivered and the muscles in his arms twitched, struggling with the effort to not grab for his leg, where the scar tissue twisted, a hard white, unfeeling knot where another bullet had burned a path not so long ago.  A hysterical thought bubbled up at that back of his mind. _What was the deal with their family and guns?_

Jimmy had called as soon as the story aired on the news.  He’d called a little later too.  And a little after that.  So many tiny conversations stacking up like bitter stones into a wall they hadn’t meant to build.

            _“It wasn’t Dad, El, stop being ridiculous.”_

_“You’re lying to yourself, Jimmy.  You should stop that.  It’s not healthy.”_

_“And your fixation on this dad thing isn’t?  Come on, El, even Lucifer doesn’t think it was Dad; it was just some poor bastard who resembled him.  Quit being childish.”_

_“Lucifer will say anything to get what he wants.  He manipulates people, Jimmy. You know that.”_

_“Stop being so fucking calm, El!  We’re arguing, at least have the decency to look at me! Or yell!  Something!  I don’t care!”_

_“Jimmy, my understanding of the facts is this: our brother tried to kill our father.  Who then disappeared from the hospital without being identified.  And now you’re representing our patricidal sibling in court in an olivine attempt to accelerate your career.  Am I wrong?”_

_“El, that’s not- ! How could you - ! GOD FUCKING DAMMIT, LOOK AT ME!”_

_“Am. I. Wrong?”_

_“NO! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED TO HEAR?! NO!  YOU’RE NOT FUCKING WRONG!  …El.  Please. Try to understand. He’s our brother. And I…I need to help him. And I’ve got a family and a steady job, so sue me if I don’t take the chance to kill two birds with one stone. I can help out the brother who raised us and boost my career and help support my wife and daughter. Meanwhile, you’re throwing a Technicolor bitch-fit over a man who happened to look like the man who donated half our genes, then left us alone to be raised by a crazy woman.”_

_“Lucifer did not raise us.”_

_“El, at least he was there some of the time.  Dad wasn’t.  End of story.”_

_“Quite cordovan, I’m sure.”_

_“El…”_

_Castiel had heard the pleading tone in Jimmy’s voice but had chosen to ignore it._

Now, thirteen years later, Castiel wasn’t sure what to think anymore.  All the anger had made so much sense back then. Lucifer had abandoned them to pursue the ghost of their father for all those years and then; _then_ , he’d turned around and killed that same ghost. Or tried to kill. It was the same difference, really. Because if Lucifer was chasing their father just to destroy him then what was the point?  What was the point of Castiel and Jimmy’s sacrificed childhoods if there wasn’t anything at the end of Lucifer’s quest but more loss? And Castiel was sure, even if Jimmy wasn’t, even if Jimmy didn’t want to be.  That was their father Lucifer had shot.

Castiel had waffled on visiting the man in the hospital.  But then he’d disappeared from the recovery ward and Castiel lost his chance.  

Castiel didn’t know how to feel about that either.

He closed his eyes only to have them click open one more time.  Why did he have to do this all over again?

Dean’s voice broke his reverie.  “What’d the phone ever do to you?” Cas looked up to see Dean standing by the wall where he’d flung the phone, the device’s sad remains hanging from Dean’s tanned hands.

The cop-turned-history teacher raised his eyebrows at him, “Cas?  You got something you wanna say?” 

“I’m not sorry I broke the phone.  I hated that one.”

Dean shrugged, setting aside the wreckage, “Then we’ll get a new phone, that’s not the issue here.”

“Pray tell, what is ‘the issue’?” Cas asked coolly, watching Dean through narrowed eyes as the other man approached.

“Dammit, Cas,” he sighed, soft tone and tired eyes belying the harsh words, “I have no idea what’s going on pretty much ever around here.  You people are freakin’ crazy.” 

They were very close now and Cas found himself leaning into Dean’s warmth again, the way he always seemed to.  He should feel bad for this, for so shamelessly soaking up the kindness the other man offered so easily. It was greedy. But sometimes we have to be greedy or we won’t survive. 

Dean braced his hands on the counter Cas sat on, one on either side of the bookseller. “Talk, Cas.”  It was an order and a plea all in one.  

Castiel let his head flop down until his forehead pressed into the soft over-washed material of Dean’s t-shirt.  “My family is so fucked up,” he muttered into Dean’s shoulder.

“That’s okay, everyone’s is.”

“Yours hasn’t actively tried to kill each other.” 

Dean snorted, “Well, you clearly weren’t paying attention last Thanksgiving.  Did you see that vegan shit Adam’s girlfriend brought home? God only knows how we’re not dead.”

Despite himself, Castiel felt a smile sneak onto his face, “Death by casserole, how ruddy pink.”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

Castiel sighed, turning his face to press his forehead into the side of Dean’s neck, feeling the steady, amber heartbeat beneath the other man’s skin.  “Claire decided to sneak off and visit Lucifer today. Lucifer called and told me.”

Dead silence and then; “Son of a bitch,” Dean whispered, one hand coming up to absently comb through Cas’ unruly hair, “Is she okay?  Even if she is, she’s not gonna be once we’re through with her.”

“Lucifer made it sound like she was just fine,” Castiel admitted, stress and the past buzzing beneath his skin like a thousand angry bees.

“Okay. What do you want to do about this?”

“I don’t know,” Cas admitted, “I never know how to do this parent thing.”

“I think that’s the point. You just make it up as you go.”

“Shit.”

“I know, right?”

They sat and stood in silence for a few more moments before Dean said, suddenly, “She did a good job, sneaking out.  We had no idea. Bad follow-through; though. Never visit people who are gonna rat you out.” 

Cas glared at him but didn’t bother to lift his head, just sort of pressed his frown into Dean’s neck, “Not helpful.”

“Sorry. It’s true, though.”

“Stop that.”

More silence, which Dean of course broke again, because Dean didn’t like quiet to stretch out too terribly long, “She is in so much trouble when she gets home. But at least she’s safe.”

“We hope. My brother is legally insane.”

            “You say insanity is a matter of perspective.”

            Castiel didn’t have a comeback for that so he just poked Dean in the side instead of replying. 

…

            Dean was waiting for them in front of the bookstore. 

            “Hey, Dean-o, guess what we found?” Gabe chirped; sliding out of the backseat, pizza in hand, not at all quelled by the sharp look the elder Winchester directed his way.

            “You two had better not have had anything to do with this.”

            “Don’t worry,” Sam reassured him, box of salad balanced on one hand, far out of the reach of Gabe’s grabby fingers, “we just picked her and her posse up when one of their tires went flat.  The other two are at home, getting read the riot act as we speak.”

            “Dude, normally I’d make fun of the fact that you used the word ‘posse’ in a real-life sentence, you giant nerd, but I’m a little more focused on the problem at hand.”

            Sam rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, I’m a giant nerd, even though I’m not the one who’s read _Lord of the Rings_ nine million times.”

            “Shut up, and stay focused, Sammy.  Also, those are _classics._ ”

            “Whatever, man.  Gabe, let’s take the pizza upstairs.” 

            Gabe, seeing that Claire was out of the car now and not wanting anything to do with the oncoming storm, hummed in agreement and scampered after Sam, still trying to get at the salad box.

            Claire shuffled her feet by the passenger door of Sam’s car, “Hey, Dean,” she muttered at her sneakers. 

            “That’s all I get, a ‘Hey Dean’?” he demanded, “Claire, what the hell were you thinking?”

            “I screwed up, I’m sorry.” 

            “Yeah, kid, you did screw up, and your dad’s not happy about it. But we’re glad you’re okay.”

            Claire looked up at that, face pale in the faded near-twilight light. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t want to upset you or Dad or… I’m sorry.” 

            Dean’s face softened a bit, “Come here, kid,” he held out an arm to her and she walked into the one-armed hug, her arms slipping around his middle and squeezing briefly. 

            “We’ve got a lot to talk about,” Dean said, “And you’ve got questions. I get it. I have questions too. But next time, ask your dad. Don’t lie to us, don’t sneak off to visit potentially loony family members without asking us, for god’s sake, tell us where you’re going, what if something’d happened to you? Never go anywhere without backup, got it?  And your friends? Don’t count as backup. Got it?  And never, ever lie to us.  Okay?” 

            “Dean, I’m so sorry,” Claire whispered. 

            “Apologies don’t mean jack if you do it again,” he reminded her, not unkindly, “‘I’m sorry’ won’t keep you safe.”

            “I won’t do it again.” 

            “Good girl,” he ruffled her hair even though she was probably too old for that, “Now, let’s go up and talk to your dad and eat some pizza.”

            Claire sighed, “Dad’s mad, isn’t he?”

            “Your dad is a complicated man.”

            “So you have no idea.”

            “None. All I know is you’re grounded. Like, hard-core grounded.”

            “Seriously?”

            “Yep.”

            “Do you even know how to ground someone?”

            “Are you kidding?  I was grounded all the time as a kid.  I learned from the best.”

            “Great.”

            “Yep. Now let‘s eat some pizza. And pie, did Sam get pie?”

            “Gabe got the food, so no.”

            “Son of a bitch, he’d better have some pie at his place. Little weasel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again everyone, you're fabulous. 
> 
> P.S. The chapter title comes from a song called “Mess I Made” by the band Parachute


	7. If You’re Broken Now I’ll Mend Ya, Keep You Sheltered from the Storm

**Chapter 7: If You’re Broken Now I’ll Mend Ya, Keep You Sheltered from the Storm**

                  In the end Castiel didn’t have much to say.  One look in his eyes and Claire hung her head, heartily ashamed. “Dad, I’m so sorry.”

                  He nodded, not saying anything, just looking at her, cataloguing every angle, every edge.  Mapping her in his brain and preserving what he saw.  “Thank you for coming home,” he finally said and she pressed her lips together, staring a hole in the floor as her eyes flooded with tears. 

                  “I just wanted to _know_ ,” she whimpered.

                  “Then you just should have _asked_ ,” he pointed out, voice mild but at the same time somehow achingly vulnerable and infinitely strong. 

                  “I figured that out,” she muttered.

                  “Good,” he said. 

                  And then silence ate up the air between them until Dean, who stood just behind and to the right of Claire, watching the tiny family drama play out, interjected. “You’re still grounded, kid, I don’t care what Cas says.”

                  Claire grinned around the tears and snot that seemed to be making a break for it down her face.

                  Castiel snorted, saying, “Very well,” but muttering “gamboge orange,” under his breath.  Neither Claire nor Dean really knew what aspect of the situation was gamboge orange, but they were equally unsure that they actually wanted to know. 

                  From the hallway somewhere behind them Sam yelled, “Can we come in now?”

                  Before Dean, Cas, or Claire could answer Gabe made the question irrelevant by squealing “GROUP HUG!” at the top of his lungs and barreling into the entryway of the Novak/Winchester apartment and squashing as much of the Novak-Winchesters in question into an awkward embrace that was only made more awkward by the pizza the tiny baker still carried in one hand.

                  The hug ended fairly quickly, as soon as Dean gathered his wits enough to shout something along the lines of “GET THE GODDAMN PIZZA OUT OF MY FACE,” but not before Gabe had given them a final squeeze and heckled Sam into joining them. 

                  Once everyone was separated once again Dean folded his arms and glared at Gabe, “If my pizza’s crushed because of you, I’m gonna fold you up like laundry and stuff you in the trunk of Sam’s stupid Prius and never let you see the light of day again.” 

                  Gabe laughed him off, of course, made one last grab for the box of salad Sam kept carefully out of his reach, and darted off to the kitchen to grab plates for the (hopefully uncrushed) pizza. 

                  All was as it should be. 

…

                  It was four in the morning and Castiel couldn’t sleep. He sat in the bookstore, surrounded by the vague shapes of shadow-draped shelves, rapping his fingernails in a jagged almost-rhythm against the chipped porcelain of his favorite coffee mug. Dean sometimes joked that Cas had an imperfection fetish. All his favorite things were chipped, scratched, scarred and battered. 

                  Castiel took a gulp of coffee, trying not to think. 

                  Dean was upstairs, safe in their apartment; sound asleep. Good, strong, amber Dean. He doesn’t have an imperfection fetish. He probably could do a lot better than chipped, scratched, scarred, and battered Castiel.

                  But he hadn’t. 

                  And more than that, he’d chosen not to.

                  He _chose_ Cas. No one else had ever done that before. Not until Dean Winchester. Dean, who _chose him._ Dean, who could have left, and almost did, but then didn’t.  Dean who stayed.

                  Castiel clung to that sometimes; in the dark, in the nights he couldn’t sleep, in the days when he was dogged by memories and ghosts chewed up the edges of his shadow. 

                  Emotions staggered through Castiel’s body like drunken strangers that won’t leave your house after the party they weren’t invited to has long ended. He could have lost Claire today, yesterday, whatever.  And he wouldn’t have known it.  She could have just winked out of existence and _he wouldn’t have known._ Maybe the pieces would have eventually come together the next day, the next week, month, year, year _s._ But in that moment, on that day, he wouldn’t have known. 

                  People say that secrets eat you up inside.  Castiel considered himself, his whole tragi-comic existence, to be an example of that worn-out truth.  His father’s secrets, his brothers’, Amelia’s, his own, and now Claire’s. Was it some sort of grotesque inheritance?  The inability to face the facts square on? 

                  Jimmy was the only honest one. 

                  And Jimmy died.  Castiel wasn’t sure what to make of that, if it was some sort of metaphor or twist of irony, or was it just random chance?  He didn’t know, and he had the looming feeling that his inner monologue was growing a bit melodramatic.  Claire wasn’t like them, after all, she was just a teenager; doing was teenagers did best: not thinking ahead.  It wasn’t some sinister family inheritance come to spell out their fate in her blood.

                  But Castiel couldn’t quite stifle the urge to ask someone, to talk to someone who _knew,_ who understood what their family was and what they’d done for, to, and because of each other. His hand went for his cellphone; it was nearby, he’d used it as a flashlight to avoid plummeting down the stairs when he skulked down here an hour ago to drink his coffee and quiet his mind.

                  He needed to talk to someone.

                  Normally he’d talk to Dean, wait until morning and curl around his partner and ask him all the questions of the universe.  And Dean would listen; half awake but still attending to each word, weighing the sound and rhythm of them against their meaning.  But Dean didn’t know.  He hadn’t lived through all those years in that big, empty house full of big, empty people.  Castiel loved Dean with everything he had, but there were some things the other man couldn’t share. 

                  Cas found himself tracing Jimmy’s old home number against the dark, cold screen of his phone, fingers finding the spaces where buttons would have been on an old cell from the days before the ubiquitous smartphone. He considered calling Rafael but gave that up as hopelessly liver-colored.  Zachariah was out of the question. 

                  In the end he tapped out a simple set of digits and brought the phone up to his ear before he could change his mind and hang up.

                  “Yes, this is James Novak, I’d like to speak to my brother, Lucifer.”

…

                  “What happened?”  Lucifer almost sounded…concerned.  But Castiel dismissed the adjective as too soft for a man like his brother. Perhaps tense was more fitting.

                  “Are we natural liars?” 

                  “What?”

                  “Are we just born with the inability to live like normal people? Do we just come into the world ready to lie and cheat and just be terrible, terrible people until it kills us?”

                  “Jim-”

                  “What the hell is wrong with us, Lucifer?” Castiel demanded, and his voice sounded like it was strangling itself, caving in and tangling up like too much yarn. 

                  “Jimmy! What the hell is going on?!” And even though Lucifer was shouting, it had the same strangled quality Cas’ voice did, the sound of someone who wants to scream and rage but can’t because it’s nighttime and there are people _sleeping_.

                  Castiel sighed, sucking air in between his teeth in a single, tight hiss of sound, “Nothing.  Nothing is going on. I just couldn’t sleep.” That made sense, didn’t it?

                  The dead silence on the other end of the line told him that it most certainly did not. 

                  “Did Claire get back okay?” Lucifer asked and it was quiet, measured, like he was wary and almost frightened by Castiel’s outbursts and the writer-turned-bookshop-owner might have laughed under different circumstances. 

                  Cas sighed again, collecting what was left of himself, “Yes, she did. She’s fine.  Thank you for telling me.”

                  “So why the late-night freak-out, baby bro?” Lucifer asked, a sharp edge hidden in his carefully casual words.

                  “I couldn’t sleep,” Castiel repeated again, but even now it sounded weak.

                  “Weak-sauce. Boo.  I expect better from you.” 

                  “Too bad.” 

                  Dead silence and then, “So, what’s eating at you, Jim-Beam?”

                  Castiel huffed a sigh, “I was thinking about our family history a bit too much and started to…fixate on some reoccurring themes.” 

                  “Like lying.”

                  “Yes.”

                  “Heavy stuff, kiddo.” 

                  “Don’t call me that.  I know.”

                  “Why’d you call me?”

                  “You were the only one left.”

                  “Ouch, that stung a little, but we’ll recover given time and some settlement money.”

                  “No lawyer jokes.” 

                  “Draconian rules you’ve got there,” Lucifer said dryly, “Are you gonna be this bad when I live with you?”

                  “Infinitely worse,” Castiel deadpanned and it was almost like they were young again and nothing had gone wrong yet. 

                  Silence unfolded around them and somehow it only managed to be a tiny bit awkward. Castiel could feel his eyelids drooping, heavy with the day behind him, cringing away from the day struggling to dawn outside.

                  “For what it’s worth, kid,” Lucifer hummed, a little off-key and grating, “I don’t think we were born to be terrible people.  It sort of just…happened.”

                  “So we chose to be terrible people?” Castiel said flatly, the sarcastic _‘thanks, brother, you’re a comfort and a treasure’_ remaining unspoken. 

                  “No, no, noooo…” a pause and then, “Shit, I’ve got nothing.   Wow, I suck,” Lucifer didn’t sound ashamed so much as slightly surprised. 

                  Castiel sighed into the phone, listening to the faint buzz of static across the speaker.

                  “Jimmy,” Lucifer began and Castiel had to hold his breath to keep the gasp that tried to escape his lungs inside.  Even now, twelve years later, hearing his brother’s name casually thrown in his direction gutted him. 

                  “Jim,” Lucifer tried again and Castiel forced himself to listen this time, “We’re not terrible people.  I don’t know what happened while I was in here, I don’t know anything, really, but we’re not terrible people.  We just made some choices and some stuff happened that we regretted and it hurt us in the end.”

                  A strange sad noise worked its way out of Castiel’s throat and tears beaded up at the corners of his eyes.

                  “I met your kid today, remember?” Lucifer said lightly, “She’s a good kid. You and Castiel; you were good kids. The family can’t be all that bad. We’re pretty terrible sometimes but sometimes the stuff we make is pretty cool.” 

                  The tears were hot and heavy at the edges of Castiel’s vision, blurring everything, turning the pre-dawn world into a blue-grey smear, “Thank you.”

                  “I’d say no problem but that would make me a _liar_ and _I must not tell lies_ ,” Lucifer sing-songed ‘liar’ and the last few words. Castiel wondered absently if his incarcerated brother was seriously making a _Harry Potter_ reference after a very somber conversation.

                  A hysterical little giggle bubbled up, painfully tight in his chest as Castiel remembered 2003, sitting on the floor, fingers combing through 800+ pages at the speed of light, devouring _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ with five-year-old Claire curled up against his chest, listening to words she half-understood rumble their way out of his smoke-scarred throat.  Reading and reading and reading because that was the only way to drown out reality.

                  He wondered how Lucifer had gotten a hold of the book.

                  Tears finally escaped his eyes when he realized that Jimmy _never finished the Harry Potter series_ and somehow that ridiculous little bit of nothing brought the whole tragedy of their lives to bear, crushing him down with the weight of it. 

                  “I have something to tell you,” he found himself telling Lucifer before he could stop himself. 

                  “Shoot,” Lucifer encouraged and Castiel swallowed down the lump in his throat.

                  “There was a fire, twelve years ago.  It…changed some things.”

                  “Fuck you and the ambiguity that statement rode in on, Jimbo, spit it out.”

                  “My twin is dead, Lucifer.  You were really the only person I could call.” 

                  “…Fuck.”

                  “Yes, fuck,” Castiel’s voice seemed to grow stronger, the words blooming in his chest like a rain-starved plant finally getting the water is so desperately needed. “Here are the facts of life as I know it, Lucifer.  Our father is missing, possibly dead in a ditch for all I know,” ( _‘and it could be your fault’_ he didn’t say, because while he hadn’t really moved on, the years had put some distance between then and now and the old argument just seemed rather _pointless_ ) “Our mother is still in a mental hospital and has not recognized me in over a decade.  Both Zachariah and Rafael have reduced their interactions with me down to belated birthday cards and passive-aggressive Christmas greetings.  My twin is dead in a house fire because I wasn’t fast enough to save him.  Amelia spent the eight years after the fire running all over the country, slowly pickling her liver and doing god-knows-what-else.  She resurfaced and got clean just long enough to reconnect with what’s left of us, tell us she was dying, and then get killed in a traffic accident. I’ve been in a relationship with a man named Dean for four years; I’ve been very fucking happy, thank you very much. I own a bookstore; our cousin Gabriel owns the bakery one door down and we live in the same apartment building. He makes my life a chocolate-covered hell and I wouldn’t change a thing.  I’ve been _happy_.  I’ve been _coping._ And I don’t know how to be the person you want me to be when you get released.”

                  Lucifer went dead quiet. 

                  “I’m fucking sorry, Lucifer,” Castiel says and it’s not really an angry hiss so much as a soggy cough. 

                  And Lucifer surprised him.  “That’s fine.”

                  “What?”

                  “Just give me a couch to sleep on.  I’ll be there.” 

                  _“What?”_

                  “Stop pretending you didn’t hear me,” Lucifer sing-songed, “If it didn’t work when you were a cute little tyke it isn’t gonna work now that you’re all grown-up and grim.” 

                  Castiel choked on a laugh, “This doesn’t fix as much as you think it does.”

                  “Meh, I don’t care.  Life’s a work in progress.”

                  “Okay.”

                  “Don’t forget the couch.  I have high expectations now.  Don’t ruin this for me.” 

                  “Goodbye, Lucifer.”

                  “Nice couch.  None of that shitty furniture you had in college.” 

                  Castiel hung up. 

                  He sat in the dark with his cold coffee for a little while longer, staring at nothing and wondering what he didn’t know about the year he wasn’t speaking to his brothers. 

…

                  Dean woke up to the smell of slightly burnt sausage.  He weighed the possibility of more sleep against the probability of Cas blowing up the kitchen and/or giving them all carbon monoxide poisoning. His self-preservation instinct won against his laziness and he crawled out of bed to face the sight of Castiel frowning at the stovetop like it had personally wronged him.

                  “You’re just so…puce.  Puce and disagreeable,” Cas chastised the cooking apparatus and Dean tried really hard not to find the furrow between his eyebrows just a little bit cute.

                  “What the hell are you doing?” Dean yawned instead of commenting on the cute frown because _commenting_ on something as sappy as an adorable expression would force him to give up his man card for good and he just wasn’t ready for that quite yet.

                  Also it meant the frown was now pointed in his direction rather than the stove and that was definitely a bonus.

                  “Cooking. I would think that was obvious.”

                  Dean yawned again, “Sausage is on fire.”

                  Castiel spared the pan a glance and glared back at Dean when he saw the sausage was only smoking slightly and not actually ablaze.  “You,” Cas said, each word measured and precise, “Are a liar.”

                  “And you are a crappy cook.” 

                  Cas narrowed his eyes irritably at him and went back to poking a lump of what might be eggs with a spatula, scooping a paperback book up with his free hand and finding the place he left off. 

                  “Okay, stop before you catch yourself on fire,” Dean moved over to nudge, and then when nudging didn’t work, _shove_ Cas out of the way.  “I swear to god, you’re a hazard.”

                  “Hmm, love you too,” Castiel said in that infuriatingly absent-minded way of his, blue eyes glittering at him from behind the pages of the book.

                  “Give me the spatula before I’m forced to hurt you,” Dean grumbled at him.

                  Castiel held onto the spatula just long enough to force Dean to struggle for it a second before surrendering control of the kitchen.

                  “So cardinal,” Cas hummed indulgently and Dean snorted at him.

                  “Damn right,” he muttered despite the fact that he had no real idea what Castiel meant by that. 

                  Cas knew it too, the little shit; he just smirked at him some more and asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

                  “Yes.” Dean side-eyed him as Castiel hovered over the coffee maker, book still in hand, “If you give me your black sludge of death just to spite me I’m gonna be pissed.” 

                  Castiel gave him a carefully blank look, “I don’t understand.”

                  “Liar,” Dean chuckled, looking away and focusing on salvaging breakfast.

                  He could feel Cas smile at him behind his back, though. “Yes,” the bookshop owner said simply. A moment later a perfectly innocent, _normal_ cup of coffee slid over to rest beside Dean’s elbow. 

                  “Thanks,” Dean gave Cas a smile and the got another Cheshire Cat grin in return.  

                  “You two are so _weird,_ ” Claire interrupted them, voice heavy and sleep fogged.

                  “Good morning,” Dean and Cas chorused, making the teen grumble incoherently at them as she fumbled around for her own mug. 

                  Claire sniffed, “Is something burning?”

                  “Hmm?” Cas didn’t bother to look up from his book, hopping up to sit on the counter beside the stove and Dean, “Toast.” 

                  “Toast, very descriptive,” Claire muttered. 

                  “Toast,” Cas said philosophically. 

                  “Cas?” Dean said, tone deceptively even, “Is the toaster smoking?”

                  Claire, who had scooted over to investigate the apparatus, squeaked and jumped back, “Shit!” 

                  “Language,” Cas corrected absently.

                  “Dad!”

                  “Cas!”

                  With a sullen ding the toaster spat out two thoroughly blackened pieces of bread. 

                  Castiel blinked owlishly at them before plucking one of the slices from the metal slot and taking an experimental bite.  “Not bad,” was his only observation. 

                  “Cas, I love you,” Dean turned to him, putting a hand on his knee, “but please never every try to cook anything more complex than a sandwich,” he finished gruffly, trying to choke back laughter. 

                  Cas narrowed his eyes at him, kicking his heels against the lower cabinets absently, “More toast for me.”

                  “Dad,” Claire, who had no compunctions about laughing at her father, wheezed, “Please stop eating that.”

                  “No, not more toast for you, I’m pretty sure that stuff is more charcoal than bread,” Dean backed her up, squeezing Cas’ knee to emphasize his point.

                  Cas gave him an unimpressed look but lowered the charcoal briquette masquerading as breakfast food.  

                  Breakfast passed in much the same way; Dean eventually giving Cas’ culinary attempt up for lost and just starting over, this time with the addition of waffles from the waffle-maker he may have stolen from Sam’s apartment last weekend. They bickered and bantered and it was _nice._ Cas looked tired and Dean was tempted to bring it up but one look from the other man told him that _now was not the time_ and he let it be. Claire moaned a bit about her grounding but gave up fairly quickly when she found that neither of her parental figures was particularly inclined to be sympathetic.  Sam turned up, wearing short and sweaty from his morning run, bitching about his missing waffle-maker almost before he got through the door. He ended up staying for more than his fair share of waffles and a veritable mountain of eggs. Luckily, Gabriel was at work. Their supply of syrup was safe from a tiny man’s enormous sweet tooth.  _Un-_ luckily for them, Gabriel would whine about missing ‘family breakfast’ all day. 

                  It was nice.  It was right.

                  And for the first time Cas thought maybe, just maybe, there might be room for Lucifer.

                  Or this could all go down in flames and be the hot mess he knew it would be from the start.  Either way, at least right now he had Dean and Claire and stolen waffles. 

                  And Sam too.  Who stole the waffle-maker back, the bastard.

…

                  The wind nipped and tugged at Castiel’s clothes and a shiver snuck its way up his spine.  He stared at the heavy concrete brick of a building in front of him and tried not to think too much. The paperwork was signed, everything neat and tidy and legal.  Well, as legal as it could get when he was signing with another man’s name. All that was left was this.

                  The automatic doors slid open, the faded early October light flickering quicksilver bright across the smooth glass.  Castiel could almost imagine he could hear them swoosh back and forth.

                  Lucifer, a dark shape getting bigger and more solid as he approached. Castiel resisted the urge to lean back, to let Dean’s Impala support his weight as he watched his brother come closer and closer.  Dean himself sat impatiently in the driver’s seat.  Cas could feel a pair of warm green eyes burning into the spot between his shoulder blades. It was more comforting than the former artist wanted to admit. 

                  “Y’know,” Lucifer called conversationally before reaching them, “I always said it’d be a cold day in hell when I’d walk out of here.  Well, the funny farm’s pretty close to hell and it’s pretty damn cold out here, what do you think, Jimbo?  Kinda ironic?”  Lucifer was close now, close enough for Castiel to pick out all the tiny details he didn’t want to see.  The scruffy blonde hair, the strained stitching on the army surplus duffle bag slung casually over the eldest Novak’s shoulder, the cunning blue eyes. 

                  “Hello, Lucifer,” Castiel said because he couldn’t find any other words in the void of his head. 

                  “Hey, baby bro.  You don’t have a ping-pong table, do you?” his voice rose in pitch and took on a dramatic, breathy quality, “My _therapist_ says I need an _outlet_ for my _rage_.”  He smirked and his voice settled back into its normal tone and rhythm, “Really, I just got pretty fucking awesome at one-man ping-pong while in the land of the loonies.”

                  “No ping-pong table,” Castiel said flatly, choking back the urge to comment on the ragged patchwork quilt of colors he could almost see threading their way through Lucifer’s tone, his attitude, his jagged, awkward words. He had to make Lucifer believe he was Jimmy.  He had to _be_ Jimmy.  Just for now. Until Lucifer proved he could be trusted.  Or until Cas proved to himself that he could trust Lucifer.  And Jimmy couldn’t remember indigo was part of the rainbow half the time.

                  But Cas wanted to have this, to have the second chance at family he’d wanted for so long. 

                  “No ping-pong table, but we do have a halfway decent couch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack. This chapter, man. I struggled so much with this one and I have no idea why. I wrote and rewrote sections over and over and I’ve gotten to a point where I’m just posting it because I have no idea what to do to make it better. I hope you guys liked it, I really do.   
> As always, thank you to everyone who reads this fic. You’re wonderful and I appreciate you all!  
> P.S the chapter title comes from the song ‘Lego House’ by Ed Sheeran


	8. Let’s Start at the End, Become Strangers Once Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thank-yous to everyone who has commented or kudos-ed, you all make me so happy!

**Chapter 7: Let’s Start at the End, Become Strangers Once Again**

                  The night before they left to pick up Lucifer was…tense.  Dean was fidgety; Cas was restless.  Their combined nervous energy slowly turned the apartment into a disaster zone as Cas tore through it, displacing and rearranging everything he could get his fingers on, reshuffling their world until it aligned with some internal judge of aesthetic beauty and form.  Dean trailed behind him, organizing everything into tightly ordered formations, wrestling it all into military precision.  Then Cas would, inevitable as the tide; sweep through and dislocate everything all over again and the cycle would repeat. 

                  Gabe, sprawled on the couch, every angle of his compact body humming with it’s own nervous tension, left them to it, talking over the sounds of their inexorable movement. “Why are you even doing this, Cassie? It’s just gonna be another shitstorm.”

                  “Language,” Dean said gruffly, smacking Gabe on the back of the head a bit too roughly, jerking his chin sharply towards Claire’s room, “You know she’s listening in.”

                  Gabe rolled his eyes skyward, “Hypocrisy, thy name is Dean Winchester.” 

                  “What I don’t get,” Sam began, gesturing with his hands a bit too forcefully, revealing his own uncertainty about what was to come, “Is why you didn’t tell him the truth, Cas.”

                  Castiel gave Sam an empty-eyed stare that made the doctor’s skin crawl just a tiny bit (not that he would ever tell Cas that).  “I did tell him the truth,” the artist said eventually, “After a fashion.”

                  Gabe snorted, “You lied, bro.”

                  “I edited the truth.”

                  “Lied.”

                  Castiel clenched his teeth and stared his cousin down, “What would you have me do, Gabriel?”

                  Gabe sighed, eyes sliding away. 

                  “No, that’s a valid question,” to his consternation, Sam found himself backing his short friend up, “Why didn’t you tell your brother the truth, Cas?  He’ll be living with you; he obviously knows a lot about you, he lived with you for eighteen years, after all.  It’s not like it was with Dean and I, who didn’t have any expectations before meeting you.  This is your brother, he’ll be able to tell the difference between you and Jimmy, won’t he?”

                  “People change,” Cas said tersely, “it’s been years.” 

                  “People don’t change that much,” Gabe pointed out, “the only reason I didn’t catch that you’d made the switch with Jimmy was because I hadn’t seen either of you for almost ten years before I moved here _and_ never lived with you guys growing up.  I didn’t have any expectations either.” 

                  Cas huffed a short, sharp sigh, “I know all of this.”

                  “We know you know,” Sam said, exasperated, “That’s why we’re having this conversation.”

                  “Lucifer cannot know,” Cas said tightly, “What I did, I did out of necessity, but it was still…somewhat illegal.” 

                  Dean barked an awkward laugh, “Identity theft?  Totally illegal, man.” 

                  Castiel didn’t so much pull a face at him as stare at him extra hard.  Dean gave him a tight smile and Cas nodded imperceptibly and Gabe and Sam could only conclude some sort of physic couple-communication had transpired.

                  “Nevertheless,” Castiel plowed on, ignoring the questionable legality of pretty much everything he did for the moment, “Lucifer cannot know.  He can suspect whatever he wants, but he cannot _know_ anything for certain.”

                  “ _Why not_?” Sam finally snapped, well and truly exasperated.

                  But the truth was dawning on Gabe and he didn’t like it, “Because god only knows what little Luci might do with that information.” 

                  Castiel nodded tightly, “First rule of the Novak family: never let anyone have anything on you.”

                  Sam shot a look at Dean, brows raised, stomach churning at the casual way Cas had just thrown that little comment out there.  Dean pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly.  _Don’t push it._ Sam frowned at him and Dean glared just enough for the younger Winchester to know not to press.

                  “So we’ve got to go back to calling you Jamie?” Gabe sighed, “I’m getting whiplash from all the name-changing up in here.” 

                  Castiel stared at him, “Gabriel, did you know, Crayola once released a set of 16 ‘Silly Scents’ crayons. One of the 16 offered flavors and/or colors was ‘alien armpit’.  You are that color.”

                  Dean laughed, sharp and surprised but no less genuine for it, “Dude, I think that means that you’re not nearly cool enough to say ‘up in here’.” 

                  “I’m so gangsta ya’ll can’t handle it,” Gabe said cheerfully and Cas sighed sadly at him.

…

                  And so here they were, a little less than twenty-four hours later, driving back home with the devil they knew humming tunelessly in the backseat.

                  “So why can’t I have shotgun?” Lucifer asked, resting his chin on the shoulder of Cas’ (shotgun) seat.

                  “Because I am currently occupying shotgun,” Cas said evenly.  Dean admired his control and internally winced at what it must be costing Castiel to keep his face so still and smooth.

                  “Buuuuut, I’m older,” Lucifer said, dragging out the vowel sounds like a kid. 

                  “And not wiser,” Castiel clipped his consonants with hit teeth, tight and sharp and very grown-up. Dean could see Cas’ hands twitch in his peripheral vision, shivering with how hard the artist was fighting the urge to comment on what color Lucifer’s attitude was.  Dean reached out and took the shaking fingers in his own, one hand keeping the Impala between the yellow lines, the other keeping Cas from flying apart. 

                  The artist’s hands stilled beneath his own for a moment before flipping around and clutching Dean’s with a white-knuckled intensity that was as endearing as it was likely to completely cut off Dean’s circulation. 

                  “Aww, cute.” Lucifer sing-songed and as much as it rankled Dean, it didn’t sound…cruel. Mocking, but not _cruel._ Kind of like Gabe, but with sharper edges. 

                  “Delighted to know you approve, Lucifer,” Castiel said tersely and Dean resisted the urge to flick Lucifer between the eyes and get him to _back off_ and give Cas some space. 

                  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Lucifer hummed. 

                  “Sarcasm, Lucifer.”

                  “You’ve gotten mean, Jimmy.” 

                  “I don’t go by that anymore.” 

                  That actually did seem to bring Lucifer up short.  The eldest Novak jerked slightly, chin popping off the seatback, blond head rocking back and away, “What?” he asked and it sounded a tiny bit breathless and shocked, like someone had just said that sky was green. 

                  “I don’t go by Jimmy anymore,” Cas said, tone precise and even, like each word was a Scrabble piece and he had to lay every syllable out with exacting care. 

                  “But, it’s… _you_ ,” Lucifer scrambled for words, “That’s like me trying to go by Nick!  It’s just wrong!” 

                  “Nicholas is your middle name, Lucifer, hardly completely out of left field.” 

                  “Fuck you, you know why I used that example.” 

                  “I know.”

                  Dean felt like he was missing an important part of this conversation and he almost asked but Cas’s death grip on his fingers hadn’t slackened and he could only conclude that pushing this would get him nowhere good and might hurt Cas along the way. And hurting Cas was the one thing Dean couldn’t do.

                  “I stopped going by Jimmy after the fire,” Cas said into the silence, words soft and almost apologetic, “It had too many…negative associations.  I needed a change.”

                  Lucifer made a strange noise somewhere between a hum and a grunt of acknowledgement, “Fine, okay, what are you going by these days, Bond?” 

                  A tight smile flickered across Cas’s face.  When Dean raised an eyebrow, Cas explained, “A thing when we were kids, because James Bond and James Novak…I was Bond.” 

                  Dean gave him a smile that might have been a bit too big and too bright to go with those particular words, but damn, Dean wanted Cas to know that he was here for him, wanted Cas to know how brave he thought doing this, taking Lucifer in, was (even if it was kind of stupid). 

                  Cas’s face didn’t shift much but something in his stare softened just for Dean.

                  “So, what’s your name now, kiddo?” Lucifer was leaning back in his seat now, drumming his kuckles on the back of Cas’ seat.

                  “I’ll respond to any variant of James you choose to use.  I generally prefer Jamie, James, or J.” 

                  “Aww, now I get to be _creative_!” Lucifer grinned a bright, predatory grin straight into the rearview mirror.

                  Cas was not the type to sigh emphatically and pinch the bridge of his nose, but Dean could sort of sense that sort of emotion welling up in the passenger seat.

                  It was going to be a long drive home. 

…

                  Dinner was fifty shades of uncomfortable.  Lucifer oscillated between chattering inanely and brooding silently. Gabe glared at the newcomer with undisguised malice.  Sam made the most awkward of small talk.  Claire picked at her food and tried to keep up with Lucifer’s bizarre conversational leaps. Castiel had gone past picking at his meal and now seemed to be in the process of converting into some sort of bizarre modern art piece.  Dean ate quickly and with ruthless efficiency, watching everyone warily for any hint of outright danger or discord.

                  Afterward Claire and Sam escaped to the kitchen to do dishes.  Technically it was Gabe’s turn to help too but he seemed unwilling to give up his position as designated person-who-glares-at-the-unwanted-houseguest. 

                  Of course that was when Rafael called and Cas fled to the living room to pace and pretend that the tense words he exchanged with his brother were anything less than completely and totally public. 

                  “Yes, Lucifer’s here. Do you wish to speak with him?”

                  _“Now, James, why would I want to do that?”_

“My small-talk atheism extends to rhetorical questions.”

                  _“Don’t speak in riddles, it makes you sound pretentious.”_

“I’m hanging up on you know.” 

                  _“Wait, wait.  Don’t get indignant and flustered.  It’s not very mature, brother.”_

“You’re going through a tunnel,” Castiel said, tone flat and expressionless, “I cannot hear you.  Oh dear, crackle, crackle, static, static.”

                  _“ **Jimmy**. This is ridiculous. Is Lucifer there?” _

“Yes, he is.  Oh, look, we’re back at the beginning of the conversation. What, exactly, has this accomplished, Rafael?” 

                  _“Lucifer is settled?  He’s doing well?”_

“You may speak to him yourself if you so desire.”

                  _“That won’t be necessary.”_

                  Castiel sighed, “Our elder brother will not be bothering _you_ , Rafael.  You can be assured of that.” 

                  _“Oh, well, excellent.”_

                  “Also, I own a bookstore. If you must send me a Christmas present, please choose something other than Barnes and Noble gift cards. It’s terribly gauche of you to give me money to spend at my competitor’s.” 

                  And then Castiel hung up.

                  “Is gauche a color?” Lucifer asked, eyes narrowed cannily and Dean felt a frisson of anxiety snake its way up his spine.

                  “No,” Castiel very nearly snapped, “it is not.  Should you be curious as to the word’s meaning, you may look up the definition in one of the many dictionaries I keep stocked downstairs.” 

                  “I once read a whole volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica.”  That non-sequitur from Lucifer was enough to startle Gabriel into actually saying something.

                  “ _Why?_ ” the tiny baker demanded.

                  Lucifer shrugged, “One of my shrinks had one of those names where the first initial is the same as the last initial.”

                  “Alliteration,” Dean and Cas muttered under their breath at the same time, prompting Gabe to roll his eyes dramatically and Dean to mentally curse himself out as nerd and clearly spending far too much time with Cas and Sam.  Their nerdiness was polluting his cool-guy attitude.

                  And god, that sounded ridiculous even in his own head.

                  “ _‘Alliteration’_ , then,” Lucifer said, emphasizing the air quotes in a way Dean had thought to be unique to teenage girls and pretentious hipsters, “Well, this shrink thought it was kind of clever to have the volume of the Britannica that matched his initial in his office, on a shelf behind his desk.”

                  “He didn’t have the rest of the encyclopedia?  Just the one volume that matched his initial?” Claire asked skeptically from the doorway.

                  “God, that’s pretentious,” Sam said what everyone was thinking and it was almost enough to shock a laugh out of Cas; Dean could see crinkles forming around bright blue eyes as the other man wrestled with the chuckle brewing in his chest.

                  Lucifer shrugged. “Well, his sessions were really boring, so one day when he was droning on and on and _on_ , I just got up, went behind his desk and grabbed the Britannica and started reading.” 

                  “While he was still talking?”

                  “Yep. He didn’t know what to do about it. So he just kept talking. And I kept reading. Learned some cool crap, too.”

                  “Oh my god, Dad, he’s just like you,” Claire snickered, shooting a look at Cas and Dean was forcibly reminded of the day he and the bookstore owner met.

                  _“I’d like to buy this book.”_

_“Please wait.”_

_“I’d like to buy this book.”  
                  “People have been waiting for things for hundreds of years.  I’m sure your genetics allow you to survive for a few more minutes.”  _

_“Listen, you-”_

_“I am pages away from finding out if the hero lives or dies and you are spoiling it. Kindly shut up now.”_

“Dad uses books to shut people up too,” Claire helpfully supplied. 

                  Lucifer arched an eyebrow thoughtfully, “Do you, Jimbo?  You haven’t done that for _years._ Used to be you were too white-bread and polite to do something like that.”

                  “Things change,” Castiel said tightly. 

                  That was when Dean decided it would be best if Lucifer were shown to his room now.

…

                  Three years previously Dean and Cas had decided to just knock down the wall between their apartments. They practically lived together already, punching a hole in the wall between their ‘separate’ living areas would just allow Dean the opportunity to move in without actually having to move anything.  Plus, there were the added bonuses of a.) giving Cas more space for when he decided to just take over the living room with whatever the project of the day was, b.) preventing some stranger who wouldn’t know about Cas’ double identity from moving into to the apartment between them and Sam, and c.) providing them with Dean’s half-kitchen (the other half, the one with a real stove/oven and not just a two-burner range and a toaster oven, resided on Sam’s side of the wall due to some…creative architectural choices when the building was constructed) as well as a guest bedroom.  Of course, their landlord was not particularly sold on the idea of demolishing a wall and turning two apartments into one super-apartment.  So Gabe pulled some money from his trust fund and Cas pulled some money from ‘Castiel’s’ life insurance payout…and they bought the building. Sam still insisted on paying rent because Sam couldn’t resist the urge to play by the rules like a nerd. Thus ensued a passive aggressive battle between Cas and Sam officiated by the US postal service as Sam kept trying to mail him rent checks and Cas kept returning the envelopes to sender. Finally Gabe arbitrarily declared that Sam’s tab at the bakery would always be on the house and that Sam would get one free book a month from Cas’ shop and the two were forced to call a truce.

                  Now, three years later, Dean found himself showing his devilish (literally) houseguest, to what used to be his bedroom.  There was a whole slew of jokes to be made here, but Dean just didn’t have the energy or the inclination to bother. 

                  It honestly hurt a little bit to walk across the living room and not trip over one of Cas’ dozens of works-in-progress.  They’d all been stashed away in his and Dean’s room for fear of Lucifer asking too many questions. Not for the first time, Dean thought there was no way they could sustain this insanity long-term. But sustain it they would, because there were no other options. 

                  “Here’s your room,” Dean said.  He knew his voice was gruff and awkward but he didn’t bother to try to soften it. This had been a hard day for everyone.

If Lucifer had any opinions on his living accommodations, he did not voice them.  He just let out a low whistle (Dean wasn’t sure if it was mocking or not and decided he was better off just not reacting), and circled the perimeter like an animal exploring the vet’s office, light-footed, uneasy, but ultimately curious. Finally, after three circuits of the room, he settled on the generic bedspread on the generic double bed and smiled a sharp-edged smile. 

“Perfection, Dean.”  Lucifer put an odd sort of emphasis on the name, like he was making a point of trying it out, making sure it fit into the sentence right.

Dean grunted, “No problem.  Don’t wreck it.”

Lucifer arched his eyebrows mock-innocently, “Whyever would I do that?  I am a veritable saint.”

Dean remembered the conversation in the car and decided he might as well poke the beast that was the past and see what happened, “Jolly old Saint Nick?”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He was on his feet and approaching before Dean had time to blink.  “ _Do not call me that_ ,” the blond man hissed and his blue eyes, a paler shade than Cas’; sort of washed out and grey like the sky on a hazy day, glinted with barely leashed fury.

Dean didn’t budge because Dean knew that with predators, you had to stand your ground.  The minute you ran, you were prey.  “Really? Because you’re the one who opened that can of worms.” 

Lucifer stopped an arm’s length away and hooked his thumbs in his pockets, casually aggressive.  Dean had seen that pose before; Dean took that pose as easily as breathing. That was the way a man who is used to carrying a gun stands when he wants to show that he could draw and shoot at any time.  There was a psychological explanation behind it, something about the subconscious and a lot of things only Sam cared about.  Dean didn’t give a damn what his subconscious mind was doing when his conscious mind was busy telling him that Lucifer knew violence like an old friend and wasn’t afraid of renewing the acquaintanceship. 

“Names have power, _Dean_ ,” Lucifer emphasized the name again, driving the point home with unnecessary flair, “Haven’t you read Rumplestiltskin?  It’s all in the name.  What do you call yourself?  What’s your true name?  What do people call you? It’s all in the name.”

Dean knew what the other man was getting at, but he didn’t react; he kept his breathing steady, his features impassive, staring the eldest Novak down for a few long seconds before letting a cocky smirk twist its’ way across his features, “Your family sure likes showing off.”

Lucifer twitched.  It was a short, sharp spasm of the face, but it was there.

Dean shrugged, “I get it, you guys are kind of dramatic. It’s cool.  But try to keep it copacetic the first few days, okay? J’s,” _and god, was it strange to say that name after four years of ‘Cas’,_ “a little on edge. Try not to rock the boat too much.”

Lucifer glared.  Dean shrugged, but glared back all the same, equal parts aggressive and dismissive.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Lucifer said, words sharp and quiet.

“Night, Lucifer.”  And with a casual salute, Dean turned away from the doorway and made his way back to the living room, ignoring the snap of the door shutting behind him.

…

“What did you and Lucifer talk about?” Cas asked Dean later, when the midnight moonlight slithered through the cracks in their blinds, casting their bedroom in silver.  Castiel sat on the floor, one of his canvases in front of him, paint tracking its Technicolor way up his arms, flecks of it decorating his face, his hair, his bare chest and shoulders.  His rattiest pajama bottoms, just as stained as the rest of him, sat low on his narrow hips and in the dark he looked like something cosmic and unreal.  A phantom or an angel. 

“Who was in charge, him or me,” Dean said absently; fingers idly tapping out the next scene in the next Moondor book, skin white and washed out in the aggressive white light of his laptop screen, eyes mostly occupied with the clean silver lines the moonlight cut across Cas’ body.

Blue eyes narrowed skeptically, “No, you didn’t.”

Dean shrugged, stretching out on his stomach on the bed, torso propped up on his elbows, “It’s not the words you say; it’s what you say with the words.  I pushed him, he hit back, I proved that I wasn’t going to be knocked down and that was it.”

Cas pursed his lips pensively and kept staring.

Dean huffed a sigh, “You want to know what words we said.”

“Yes.”

Another sigh, “I made a crack about the Nick thing, Lucifer made some pointed comments about names and I shut him down. Happy?” 

Cas frowned at him, “Yes.”

Dean rolled his eyes, a smile sneaking up on the edges of his lips, “Liar.”

Castiel nodded, making shadows dance over his face. “Yes.” 

Silence and then, “Care to explain the Nick thing?”

He could see the muscles roll and tense in Castiel’s back. Dean reached out, resting his palm between the other man’s shoulder blades, and felt the artist relax just a hair. Dean rubbed soothing circles with his hand and waited for Cas to speak. 

“Our father and mother did not agree on our names. Our father wanted traditional, strong, solid, names.  The kind you find repeated over and over in history books and baby naming websites. Our mother wanted unusual, powerful names for us.  She wasn’t the type to focus on the present so much as the past.  She used ‘weird’ in its original, Shakespearean connotation more often than not.   Jimmy got in trouble many times for using words in modern contexts that she didn’t approve of. When she chose the name ‘Lucifer’ for my brother, she was focused on the idea of the light-bringer, not Satan. And she filled out the birth certificate before my father could.  The compromise was Lucifer’s middle name; Nicholas. 

                  “To our father, he was always ‘Nick’.  Not Lucifer. And when our father left…he stopped being Nick.  He was so angry, so determined to find our father and prove…something.  I don’t really know.  But the name Nick has always been a sore point for him.” 

                  Dean nodded into the darkness, “I don’t get it, but I do.” 

                  “That’s good enough, I think,” Cas said quietly. 

                  And it was enough. Enough for another night, with another day creeping around the corner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Writer’s Block that was a hard chapter to write. Good god. But all is well; here it is, for what it is. I hope you guys liked it!   
> As always, thank you everyone who reads this fic!!! You guys are AWESOME.   
> P.S the chapter title comes from the song “Irrelevant” by Lauren Aquilina


	9. Chapter 8: Nothing is Broken or Forgotten, That’s the Deal

**Chapter 8: Nothing is Broken or Forgotten, That’s the Deal**

                  Things were eerily…normal for the next week.  If normal included waking up at two in the morning to Lucifer watching ‘Good Morning Vietnam’ at top volume in the living room, or running out of Frosted Mini Wheats twice in four days because someone’s devilish brother couldn’t keep his sticky fingers to himself, or having to mediate a dispute between Lucifer and one of Gabe’s younger customers over who had custody of the orange crayon. (It turned out Lucifer had taken all of them for some unknown purpose. Gabe was not pleased, Cas, unsure what emotion to feel in this situation, settled on ‘skeptical’ and Sam, the only person good with children under the age of four, wasn’t there to witness the Crayola Crisis.)  Lucifer was unsure what the problem was, or was doing a bang-up job of pretending to be unsure what the problem was, while the rest of the house sank into a sort of exhausted, restless, irritated stupor in the wake of his chaos.

                  “It’s like Dad on a bender times a million damage points,” griped Claire, her elbows the only things keeping her from sliding off the cafeteria table into a boneless puddle on the questionably-clean floor. 

                  “Your dad’s benders aren’t usually this bad,” Ben pointed out with a wince, nudging Claire back onto the table when gravity began to pull her floor-wards in earnest.

                  “No, because he has Dean there to mediate his crazy!” Claire sighed, “and Dad’s benders _end_.  He finishes whatever project’s caught his attention and all is right with the world. And he doesn’t hoard crayons or harbor a deep, irrational obsession for one particular Robin Williams movie.”

                  “Who’s hoarding crayons?” Krissy asked, plunking her tray on the table unnecessarily loudly.

                  “My uncle,” Claire sighed again.

                  “Why?” Krissy pulled a face.

                  “I don’t know!” Claire threw her hands heavenward as if pleading for Zeus to throw a particularly impressive lightning bolt right here, just to put her out of her misery.

                  “Do you want my opinion or do you want to mope?” Ben asked.  The words might have been biting or sarcastic coming from someone else, but from Ben they were just even and steady. 

                  “Sure, shoot,” Claire waved for him to continue.

                  “Maybe he’s just trying to get some attention?  I mean, I’m not saying your possibly-homicidal uncle’s anything like my baby cousins, but when they were toddlers and wanted attention they used to take stuff or do stuff way out of line just to get someone to tell them off,” he shrugged, “He might just want someone to tell him no and send him to his room. To some people any attention, even negative attention, is better than none.” 

                  Claire blinked. She hadn’t thought of that.

                  “When did you get so smart, Braedon?” Krissy flicked an over-cooked cafeteria French fry at him.

                  “Ow, those hurt, Kris,” he complained, throwing it back at her.  (It was true; the school cafeteria clearly had a ‘more is better’ policy when it came to cooking _anything_. The fries were baked into inedibility half the time and even when they were digestible you could still use them like throwing darts.)

                  “Thanks guys,” Claire said, catching her food fighting friends off guard with her sincerity, she moved her hand over to squeeze Ben’s knee under the table and kissed him on the cheek, “Especially you, babe.” 

                  “No problem,” Ben murmured, turning to catch her lips in a quick, chaste kiss that had Krissy pretending to gag across the table.

                  “Eww, gross, couple-stuff,” she moaned comically, flinging more fries at them until they broke apart and tossed them back, lunch descending into giggles and chaos.

…

                  To say Lucifer expected his niece to appear in his bedroom door frame that afternoon, determined set to her expression and steel in her eyes, would be a lie of proportions so epic they probably hadn’t been recorded by human hands yet.

                  He did not expect the next words out of her mouth either. 

                  “You, me, grocery shopping.  Grab the reusable bags.” And then she was gone, leaving a flabberghasted convict in her wake. 

                  What was an ex-con to do? He grabbed the reusable bags.

…

                  “Where’s the kid?” Gabe asked; bouncing into the bookstore with the kind of energy only three mochas could give.

                  “Grocery shopping with Lucifer,” Cas answered tersely.  Perched on a stool behind the counter, hunched over a grubby paperback that’d seen better days, the youngest Novak looked a bit like a large, clumsy bird. As if he could hear his cousin’s avian-related thoughts, Cas flicked a page sharply and raised a single eyebrow.

                  “Grocery shopping…with Luci?” Gabe didn’t bother to hide his incredulity, “What?”

                  Cas gave him a look over the top of his book, “You heard me.” 

                  “Does Luci know _how_ to grocery shop? Does Claire?” 

                  Castiel huffed, a sound that could have been a laugh or a sign that he was losing patience with Gabriel’s deliberate obtuseness.

                  “Okay, okay, I know Claire knows how to buy produce,” Gabe huffed, but still, isn’t it weird?”

                  Castiel gave him a look that clearly said _‘that’s the weirdest thing for you in this situation?  The fact that they’re buying food?  Not_ everything else _that’s going on here?’_

Gabe sighed melodramatically and rolled his eyes, “I’m not having this conversation if you’re just gonna keep trying beam your thoughts directly into my brain.” 

                  Castiel pointedly turned a page.

                  “Passive aggressive bastard,” Gabe muttered before hopping up to sit on the counter, back to his pseudo-sibling.  Carefully and deliberately, Gabe unwrapped a lollipop; then dropped the wrapper on the counter before sticking it in his mouth.  Behind him he could sense Castiel’s disapproving twitch, but his cousin didn’t say anything and Gabe smirked around the lollipop stick.

                  “Yes, Gabe,” Castiel’s gravelly voice cut through the stillness like an angle grinder, harsh and too-loud, throwing metaphorical sparks that, if they were lucky, wouldn’t burn anything else, “It is weird.  But at least it gets Lucifer out of the house.” 

                  Gabe raised an eyebrow, even though Castiel wasn’t looking and wouldn’t see it, “You were concerned about that?”

                  “I am always concerned about what’s going on in my home, Gabriel.”

                  “Way to both avoid the question and give this whole conversation unwanted sinister subtext, bro.”

                  Castiel made a noise that in a normal person might have been a snort.  “My apologies,” he offered dryly.

                  Gabe snickered; then sobered, “So, what’s the deal?  You want Lucifer, your homicidal-maniac brother to what…get out more?”

                  Castiel’s shrug was audible, the stiff starch of his shirt crackling just a tiny bit, “Yes. He’s been trapped inside the institution for decades.  It would be too easy for him to turn this place into another prison for himself.”

                  “Why the hell would he do that?” Gabe asked lightly, swinging his feet like a kid, drumming his heels lightly against the counter. 

                  Castiel sighed, “Because we crave that which we know.  Lucifer has known confinement, a very limited world, for a very long time. If left to his own devices he may seek to continue to limit himself.  Unconsciously, of course.  But it’s not good for him either way.”  Castiel sounded uncomfortable.  Perhaps this bit a little too close to the bone.

                  “Then how do you explain yourself, kid?” Gabe asked lightly, “You didn’t exactly ‘reach for the familiar’.”

                  “No, I lashed out,” Castiel replied tersely, “Then I ran away.” 

                  “Why isn’t Lucifer running?”

                  “Penning himself up is running for him.” 

                  “What?”

                  “He’s hiding.”

                  “I’m not gonna pretend to follow this anymore,” Gabe sighed, hopping off the counter, lollipop nearly finished, a dying sweetness on his tongue, “And my lunch break’s nearly done.” 

                  “You run too,” Castiel’s blue eyes were staring at him, harsh and too old, “We’re a family of runners.”

                  Gabe did the mature thing: he stuck his tongue out at Cas and walk out. 

                  But the words rattled around in his head afterward.  _“We’re a family of runners.”_

…

                  Lucifer had mixed feelings about the grocery store.  On the one hand, it was bright and exciting and there were people and things _everywhere,_ on the other hand, it was bright and exciting and there were people and things everywhere. Claire had given him half the list and a cart, then scarpered off to who-knew-where (probably the cereal isle, apparently his escapades with the Mini Wheats meant he’d forfeited cereal privileges for the foreseeable future.)  So Lucifer was left in the produce section, eyeing a display of tomatoes and remembering all over again why he’d lived off restaurant fare while he was a criminal mastermind. 

                  What the hell was the difference between grape tomatoes and baby tomatoes? And why was the organic everything smaller than their non-organic counterparts?

                  Lucifer finally decided to just get one of every tomato and tomato-like-thing there was. That would show them.

                  He was just reaching for the first tomato-y item when a voice, female, amused, and unfamiliar, interrupted him, “Figured it out or are you just going to wing it?”

                  Pausing only a moment, Lucifer let his casually-evil smirk crawl across his face, the one that had therapists begging for patient reassignment.  “I figure I’ll give them what they want,” he shrugged, pulling a few more tomatoes free and juggling them casually, “Tomatoes.  All the tomatoes. How else to teach them specificity?”

                  The woman snorted, “That’s one way to do it.” 

                  “You don’t approve?” Lucifer was baiting her, waiting to see how she’d react.  But so far she seemed unfortunately un-intimidated.  She wasn’t particularly impressive-looking.  Dark brown hair in a utilitarian cut, light lines around her eyes, pretty-but-unextraordinary features.  Average height.  Physically fit.  Her jeans had seen enough wear to be broken in but not so much they had holes.  Her blouse was nice enough but not dreadfully flattering. She looked like someone’s mom from a tv show. Like she’d be really good at giving no-nonsense love and discipline in equal measures.

                  It was unnerving.

                  She shrugged; her stance was wide and strong; even her shoes seemed purposeful. Lucifer figured she could throw a punch and probably shoot a gun too.  She’d be a cop in another world.  The kind of character who beat the bad guys and made it home just in time to read a story and tuck the little ones in bed and agonized over how much she worked Doing Good and all the milestones she missed in the darling kiddies’ lives in the meantime. “Me, I just stick to regular tomatoes and do my own grocery shopping.” 

                  Lucifer stopped juggling. One of the tomatoes hit the floor. He stepped on it. On purpose.  And felt like a little kid stomping on a sand castle to make a point immediately afterwards.

                  She snorted, “You’re gonna pay for that.” 

                  “No I’m not,” Lucifer sing-songed, “One of the perks of being a bad guy. No civic responsibility.”

                  She gave him a mom-look. Lucifer didn’t know how to respond. The little kid in the back of his mind was shuffling his feet and feeling sorry already, but the man whose idea of

‘mother’ involved paint fumes and vacant blue eyes was busy giving her a calculating stare.

                  “Aww, are you going to do it for me?  Get a stamp on your Good Citizen card?”

                  “Nope,” she seemed pretty resolute, “Come on, we’re gonna get a store employee and you’re gonna offer to pay for it and I’ll explain it was an accident and they’ll thank us all nice and say it’s not a problem.”

                  Lucifer kicked his smirk up from ‘casually evil’ to ‘evil with intent’, “You’re going to lie for me? That’s cute.” 

                  “Don’t flirt with me, I’m too old for you,” she said, a touch of humor coloring the words, “And I’m not singing that dumb ABBA song.” 

                  Lucifer, of course, started humming it, following her like a duckling or a very daring stalker as she searched out a store employee.

                  She gave him a chastening glance. 

                  Lucifer seemed to have made a new friend.  Yay.

…

                  “I leave you alone for five minutes and you…join a book club?” Claire raised a skeptical eyebrow; blue eyes raking over Lucifer’s suspiciously empty cart, “…and don’t get anything on the list.” 

                  Lucifer shrugged, “I improvised.  All the great actors do it.” 

                  “It’s a grocery list, not a script.”

                  “To-may-to, to-mah-to.”

                  “Yeah, you have neither.”

                  “Details.”

                  Claire sighed, “Okay, while we go back to the produce section and _get tomatoes_ , you’re gonna explain to me how you ended up joining the _Orcastle Ladies’ Literary Society_.”

                  “Nooooo…” Lucifer whined, but followed in her wake, “Screw tomatoes, I want candy.”

                  “Oh my god,” Claire groaned, “It’s like shopping with Uncle Gabe.  Now, you, speak.  How’d _you_ end up in the super-secret mom club?” 

                  “I resent your adherence to standard gender roles,” Lucifer gave his cart a little shove and hopped up on the rail, riding along with it until it almost careened into a display of tortilla chips and Claire had to grab it and wrench it out of the way.

                  Claire gave him a tired look, “Story.  Now.”

                  “You are horrible at being a feminist.” 

                  “This feminist is going to start pummeling you with jars of salsa if you don’t start talking.”

                  Lucifer gave the tomatoes-and-tomato-by-products a dirty look and graced her with a superior look that had Claire rolling her eyes again, “I made a new friend.”

                  Claire didn’t ask. Just waited.  Lucifer pouted momentarily and considered just not talking until she was too curious to stand it and _asked._ She casually heft a jar of salsa and he changed his mind.  Completely of his own accord.  Obviously.

                  “Jody Mills. Y’know, either a mom or a cop or a cop-mom-“

                  “Or the sheriff.”

                  “Sure, maybe.”

                  “No, that’s what she is.”

                  Lucifer gave her a dark look.  Claire shrugged, unaffected. This kid, seriously.

                  “Whatever, she made me pay for a squashed tomato. Now I’m invited to her super-secret book club. And you’re not. Ha.”

                  “Invited? Or did she just mention it and you decided you were going to go?” 

                  Was Jimmy (and dammit, he was Jimmy forever and always, no matter what the little shit said) giving this kid lessons on being unimpressed?  It was like talking to El!  (And that didn’t twist a knife deep down in his gut to think about, no sirree; except the times when Lucifer remembered all over again and he was left breathless and shocked with the surreality of it.  El was always gonna live forever.  Jimmy was the smart one but El was the one who was gonna survive all their family shit; and then he didn’t.  And Lucifer missed it.)

                  “Meh, does it really matter in the grand scheme of things?” 

                  Claire snorted. Apparently _she_ knew which tomatoes the ambiguous label ‘tomatoes’ meant, she was picking and choosing like a pro.  “Are you going to go?” 

                  “Um, yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

                  Claire shrugged, “You don’t seem particularly social.”

                  Lucifer snorted, “Uh, would you be in my position?  I mean, really?  Thirteen years in the looney bin means thirteen years where your only options for meaningful conversation are the nuts and the shrinks (who are just nuts with degrees, let’s be honest).  But now that I’m out…” he gestured grandly at the sea of fruits and vegetables all around them, “the possibilities are endless.” 

                  Claire gave him a small smile, “Good for you.”

                  “Huh?” he blinked at her, non-plussed.

                  She shrugged, “Good for you.” 

                  He narrowed his eyes at her, “Positive reinforcement?  I’m not Pavlov, you’re gonna have to do better than that.”

                  Claire rolled her eyes. She seemed good at that. Maybe all teenagers were. He remembered some particularly expressive eye-rolls from Jimmy when the kid was that age.  El, not so much (and there was that knife again, twisting, twisting, twisting).  El was more of a stare- at-you-until-you-started-making-sense-to-him-or-felt-like-a-worm type.

                  “Pavlov’s _dogs_.  Not Pavlov.”

                  “Huh?”

                  “Pavlov was the one doing the experiment.  The positive reinforcement thing?  He was the one doing the reinforcing.  Not the one being reinforced.” 

                  Lucifer gave her a weird look.  She pulled a face right back at him and he sniffed and looked away. 

                  “Well, I’m in a book club and you’re not.” 

                  “Well, I’ve got a cartful of food and you’ve got an avocado and a bag of croutons. I think I win.”

                  “I have _two_ bags of croutons.” 

                  “Not better.”

                  “One’s multigrain.”

                  “Ew, it gets worse.”

…

                  “I feel really weird doing this.” 

                  “Shelving books?”

                  “No, spying on my mom’s book club.” 

                  Claire sighed, “ _Dean_ , we’re spying on my devil-uncle.  Not your mom. Your mom just happens to be there.”

                  “Yeah, not helping, kid.”

                  “Shh, Dean” Cas shot a chastening look over his shoulder, “You’re very loud.”

                  Dean raised an eyebrow at him and Cas narrowed his eyes right back, “Dean Winchester, if you turn that into an innuendo I’m going to push you off that ladder. It will make a great deal of noise. Your mother will notice and you’ll be in trouble with both her _and_ me.”

                  Claire wasn’t sure if she should snicker or wince, “Gross, did not need to think about _any_ of that, guys.”

                  “Blame him,” Dean hooked a finger in Cas’ general direction.  Cas did his level best to look dignified and above such things. …Which was hard to do when crouched on the floor, shelving Harlequin serial novels.

                  The book club’s allotted hour passed without incident, which, in itself was suspicious in Dean’s opinion, but Cas and Claire were willing to let it lie without comment so they simply collected their devilish relation, closed up shop, and made their way upstairs.

...

                  “You’re doing _what_?” Cas’ version of incredulous was remarkably similar to everyone else’s version of robotic. However, that did not seem to hinder him much when it came to getting his message across. 

                  “Doing an interview Jimbo,” Lucifer grinned wickedly, sitting cross-legged on top of the counter in a way that made Cas’ bones hum with irrational hostility. _He_ was the only one allowed to use home furnishings for anything other than their intended purpose. 

                  “Aninterview?” Dean had skipped incredulous and gone straight to blunt and irritable.  He was currently doing something mysterious with vegetables on the stove and the whole kitchen smelled very forest green. 

                  “Mmmhmm,” Lucifer looked like the cat that ate the canary and Cas really wanted to shove him off the breakfast bar,  “Apparently it’s this cute little small-town thing you do around here. One of the _lovely_ ladies at the book club was telling me _all about it_.  Whenever someone new to town comes along, your little town newspaper calls them up and asks for their life story.  I think I’m gonna do it.  Get the real story out there, straight from the devil’s mouth.” His smirk deepened and he rocked back and forth slightly, looking utterly self-satisfied.

                  “Why?” Claire, sitting at the dining room table, pointedly not doing anything, was the only one who sounded genuinely curious. 

                  “Do your homework,” Dean said, shooting her a look over his shoulder. 

                  “I’m done.”

                  “Liar.”

                  “How can you tell? Your back is turned!”

                  “I’m freakin’ genius, I guess.” 

                  “So _you_ do my art history composition,” she grumbled.

                  “Not my thing, kiddo.” Dean grinned at her, unrepentant.

                  “ _Dad_ ,” Claire turned huge blue eyes on Cas and he gave her a flat stare before sliding his open book slowly up to cover his face and turning away. 

                  “Dad!” Claire threw a pencil his direction. 

Cas caught it without looking up, “Mine now.”

                  The only response was the thud of Claire’s forehead hitting the tabletop. 

                  “Finish your watercolor,” Cas said ambivalently.

                  Claire mumbled something much longer than ‘no’ into the table top but Cas figured the general sense of the sentence was hovering somewhere in the negative.

                  “I could help,” Lucifer gave them all a crystalline blue grin like cut glass and shattered ice and Cas glared at him. 

                  “No.”

                  “I can’t be artistic too?”  Lucifer said, the picture of wounded pride.

                  “No.”

                  The grin sharpened, Cas could hear the sharp edges singing as they squealed against the grindstone, “You used to be pretty handy with the watercolors yourself, Jim.”

                  “When I was five,” Cas could feel himself choke on the lie.  It had never been like this before.  Talking to strangers, making Jimmy’s history his own, had never been this hard. It hurt. 

                  “El was always the talented one.” 

                  “Yes.” One hated syllable.

                  “You were just so _different_.” Lucifer looked like a hunter, a predator that smelled blood in the air, “I mean, look at you: valedictorian, big hotshot lawyer, and hey, no false modesty now, you got me out of prison, remember? Cute kid, living the good life. And little El, he was like me, wasn’t he?  So angry, so tortured. Dropped out of college, wrote all those books with the blood and the gore, and the _paintings,_ god, they didn’t even make sense to you.  You told me so! You never did get those paintings, did you? But you read the damn books and you went to the damn art shows and you _tried._ But El was like me, he was gonna live forever or die trying and you thought,” Lucifer laughed, bitter, hard and amused, “that if you saved me you’d somehow save _him_.  And when he stopped talking to you, _you just kept going_ with the trial _._ Like it was all for his own good. Like if you could keep me out of the pen you’d keep your other brother, the one you actually gave a shit about, from walking a mile in my fucking shoes.  But it didn’t work like that, did it, Jimmy-boy?  And that’s the fucking tragedy here, that _it didn’t work like that_.” 

                  Cas’s knuckles had gone white and he wasn’t sure if he was breathing.  His vision seemed swamped with a haze of oxblood and rosewood red, shot through with lighting bolts of sharp, electric blue, searing and sickening in equal turns.  Sharp sounds cracked through the haze like gunshots or, or, or

                  _Beams cracked, the fire snickering to itself as it chewed through the house, the very frame of the building crying out under the strain. The walls seemed to wave in front of him and Castiel wasn’t sure if it was the smoke, a heat haze, or everything coming down around him.  The smoke felt loud in his lungs, swelling and expanding, forcing out all the air._

                  “Dad, Dad, hey, hey, you in there?”

                  Claire.

                  Cas blinked. Claire’s chair was on the floor. That seemed like an odd thing to notice first, but he lost a second or two trying to figure out why her chair was tipped on its’ side and she wasn’t in it anymore.

                  “ _Dad_.”  Oh. There she was. Standing right in front of him, her small, delicate fingers going white around the knuckles as she clung to his.

                  “Hello, Claire,” was all he could say. 

                  “Hello, Dad.” She squeezed his hands again, “Where did you go?”

                  “Away. It was not pleasant.”

                  “That hasn’t happened in a long time.”  There was a small, fretful furrow between her brows and he wanted to smooth it away, like he’d smooth wrinkles away when he was carving shapes into wax and made a line he didn’t like.  He’d just take it away.

                  “No. But I am here now.”

                  “You,” oh, there was Dean, a large presence behind Claire, his back slightly in front of Cas as if…as if he were shielding them.  Castiel could feel Dean’s presence humming in his personal space; a knot of carefully controlled everything.  Warm, so warm and fierce. Warm and fierce and…talking to Lucifer? Dean was talking to Lucifer. Cas forced his brain to focus on the here and now, on the words spilling out of Dean, harsh reds and oranges staining the air, “You back the hell off and leave him alone.”

                  Lucifer spread his hands ambivalently, “I was just reminiscing.  Isn’t that what happy families do?” 

                  Dean made a noise in the back of his throat, almost like a growl.  “You hurt him.  You back the hell off and shut the hell up right fucking now or so help me, god-”

                  “You’ll what? What exactly will you do?” Lucifer was baiting him, but it sounded a little weak.  Almost half-assed, like the strength of Cas’ reaction had taken even him by surprise. 

                  “ _You don’t want to know_.”  Dean had never sounded quite so vicious as he did right then.

                  Lucifer didn’t wince, but his face shuttered, cold blue eyes dimming slightly. “Okay.  This is me backing off.” 

                  “Apologize.”

                  Lucifer looked like he wanted to throw back a snide remark; then Castiel caught his eyes and whatever the eldest Novak was going to say died unvoiced. 

                  Cas wasn’t sure how long they stared each other down.  Cas wasn’t quite sure what Lucifer saw in his eyes.  Not anger.  All of that had left long ago, hollowed him out and vacated the premises.  But perhaps there was something deeper, harder, beyond all that. Because Lucifer swallowed and looked away. 

                  “I’ll be in my room.”

                  Dean tensed but one touch from Cas and he stilled.  “Let him go.”

                  Lucifer stalked off and the rest of them stood, shell-shocked and silent in the kitchen for a few moments. 

                  “Dean,” Cas’ voice did not shake and he was almost proud of that, “The vegetables are burning.”

                  Dean deflated, turned to face him.  Claire slipped away, off to the side and then back to the kitchen table, where she righted her chair and dropped loosely into it.  One of Dean’s hands came up, cradling Cas’ still face gently, touch light and careful. Cas leaned into his hand, dropping his cheek into the cradle of Dean’s palm.  Dean leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead, lingering for a moment. 

                  “Okay?” he whispered against Cas’s skin.

                  “I am alright,” Cas said, just as softly.

                  “Okay.”

                  And Dean went back to making dinner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like some dramatic music is in order…or maybe some angsty folk-pop with ambiguous metaphors and an awkwardly placed ukulele solo…
> 
> And that’s my brain ceasing to make sense. Hi everyone, sorry for the delay, I’m back now. If any of you are interested in the minutia of my normal life, here’s the latest reason why I wasn’t able to keep up with a simple update schedule: Several weeks ago I badly injured my dominant hand and had a finger heavily bandaged in and out of a splint for a while. Unfortunately, that injury compromised my immune system and I caught the flu. Frankly, the whole situation was unpleasant and had all the absurdity of a sitcom and sadly, none of the comedy. The short version of this is that due to external factors, I was just not in the right mental space to work on this project. This is an intense fic to write and can be difficult to work on when I am not at my best. However, I am healthy again and my injury is on the mend. Hopefully this will allow me to update more regularly :) 
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to all the wonderful people who keep reading this story; you’re all excellent. If you have time, please do review, I enjoy hearing from people. 
> 
> P.S. This chapter’s title is from the song ‘Lying to the Mirror’ by Gabrielle Aplin


	10. Waiting For Someone to Put You Together- Waiting for Someone to Push You Away

**Chapter 9: Waiting For Someone to Put You Together- Waiting for Someone to Push You Away**

           _“So, Lucifer, that’s an unusual name, care to tell us about it?”_

_“Well, with a name like mine I know I’m going to hell in a hand basket.”_

            Cas put down the newspaper, folding it neatly and precisely, fingers delicate, gestures sharp.   He set it aside, pushing the newsprint to the corner of the bookstore’s counter, almost out of sight, but not quite. He felt almost like he needed to keep an eye on it, to monitor its’ malevolent presence.  He could feel his brother’s words, bruise-colored and sickly in his mind.  They hadn’t spoken for days.

            It wasn’t that Castiel couldn’t.  He would if he wanted to. But after what happened in the kitchen, Dean seemed determined to act as a buffer between Cas and his brother and Castiel shamelessly took advantage of that.  He let Dean’s protective instincts get the better of him in a bad way, burrowing down behind layers of ferocious love and refusing to surface.

            In a way Cas was heartily ashamed. 

            In another he was helplessly glad.  For the first time in his life, here was someone who was willing to chase all the monsters away. Even the ones who really shouldn’t be chased. 

            The bell above the door jingled.  Cas rolled up the newspaper with a few brusque motions and threw it at the offensive sound.

            It landed with a soft _whump_ and the bell kept jangling.

            That was enough to make Cas look up from the hole he was attempting to stare into the counter.

            “This has to stop.” And there was Sam, holding the paper in one hand, a box of salad in another. 

            “You took my paper.”

            “You threw it at me.”

            “At the door bell. It was irritating.”

            “Then why do you keep it?” Sam asked, tone indicating just how many times he had asked this question without the satisfaction of ever hearing a straight answer. 

            “I’ve made a habit of collecting irritating things.” Cas deadpanned.  “Are you going to return my newspaper?”

            “Not if you keep flinging it at innocent bells.” 

            Cas shrugged, “Keep it then.”

            Sam chuckled and handed over the newspaper.  Cas raised both eyebrows at him.

            Sam shrugged, “The newspaper’s not really the issue here.”

            “Must there always be an issue?” Cas asked dryly.

            “Yeah, there must, when there is one.”

            “And is there one?”

            “Yeah, there is.”

            “And it’s not the newspaper?”

            “It’s not the damn newspaper. This isn’t a joke.”

            Castiel sighed and looked at Sam.  The younger Winchester was agitated, and orange-y sort of anxious Cas didn’t much like. He decided not to comment on it. “What are you here for, Sam?” He asked instead.

            “You’ve got to stop letting Dean baby you.” Sam said bluntly.

            That was enough to make Castiel twitch and lean back, hands on the counter, fingers drumming out a staccato rhythm on the fake wood.  “Excuse me?” 

            “You and Dean. I normally don’t interfere in the thing you’ve got going, but this is ridiculous and frankly, concerning.”

            Castiel narrowed his eyes, “ _Concerning_?” he asked; tone a warning.

            Sam was unfazed, “Yeah, I’m concerned.  Something happened with your brother a few days ago and now Dean’s hovering and fretting over you and here’s the concerning thing: _you’re letting him._ You never do that, you just do whatever you damn well please and Dean gets pissed and gets over it and everything goes back to normal.  Something’s up and it’s screwing with your head and because of that you’re letting Dean hover and it needs to stop for both your sakes.”

            “This is not your place to interfere, Sam,” Cas growled.

            “You think I don’t know that?” Sam protested, voice tight, quiet and intense, “But sometimes I’ve got to say something or you two idiots will drive yourselves off a cliff.”

            “You have no idea what the situation is,” Cas snapped, just as quiet but twice as curt.

            “Please. Listen to me.  I know something’s up with you and I know you’re not going to talk to me about it, but letting Dean coddle you until the bad things go away isn’t going to work.  Okay?”

            Cas glared at him. “You may leave now.”

            Sam’s lips pressed into a thin white line and he nodded tightly, hair flopping with the gesture. “Fine.  I’m leaving.” 

            “Excellent. You can follow instructions.”

            Sam shook his head to himself, turned and walked out.  Castiel grabbed the newspaper from the counter and ripped it open with a vicious shake.

_“No, really, where did the name come from?”_

_“I guess you could say I was just the hells bells and good old mom was a bit of a linguistics nut (a bit a of a nut all over too, but that’s another story). She liked the sound of the word, the original meaning, everything.  She figured her firstborn should have a name like ‘the light-bringer’. The rest of the fam have similarly…epic names.  Jimmy’s the normal one. Always was.”_

_“You and your brother must be close, seeing as you’re living together. Tell me about growing up Novak.”_

_“Ha. First off, my brother and I, it’s complicated.  I love my darling baby bro dearly but we’re just not always the most…compatible of personality types. Oil and nitro glycerin, as the phrase goes.”_

_“That’s not how-”_

_“Ah, they’re both flammable.  They’re both liquid-y. It made sense in my head.”_

_“…Sure. Anyway, you and your brother.”_

_“My brother’s an adorable little rule-follower. Favorite of teachers everywhere.  Me, I’m a little more…dangerous.  I got into a bit of trouble a few years ago, Jimmy helped me out then, he’s just helping me out again now.”_

            Cas set the paper aside and swallowed an inappropriately timed laugh.  He could still remember it.  He was fifteen years old.  The bite of cold night air on the back porch of the mausoleum of a house he grew up in, the heavy, complex smell of smoke tearing at the back of his throat in a darkly comforting way, the bright, orange-white ember and the pale sliver of light from the open door providing abbreviated illumination on the planes and angles of Jimmy’s face.

            “Don’t tell anyone,” Jimmy had said, leaning against the slats of the house.  No matter its’ size, no matter it’s emptiness or its’ cost, the house was built of the same raw materials as every other in the city. There was a kind of poetry in that, Cas thought.

            Castiel had just nodded and accepted the unlit cigarette his twin had held out to him. He lit it on the end of Jimmy’s and drew the pollution into his lungs and felt raw and open and meaningful. This seemed to be a night for metaphors and moments of truth and instead it was just two teenage boys with identical faces and identical embers burning through a cool autumn darkness on the back porch of a house built like any other.

            So no, Jimmy hadn’t always followed the rules.  He’d just been better at breaking them. 

            Castiel could still taste the smoke from that long-ago cigarette pooling in the back of his throat, wine-colored and rich and wrong.  He’d smoked for years after that night.  He only stopped after Jimmy died and smoke turned into to something else in his head, something hot and harsh and cruel.

            Jimmy had stopped after Claire was born.  Before, even. The minute he found out Amelia was pregnant; he quit.  Amelia never knew he smoked to begin with.  He was always very quiet about his flaws.

            Castiel kept reading.

            _“No, sorry, that was a little cavalier and I’m pretty sure my kid brother’s reading this.  And I probably owe him a little more truth than that.  The thing is, Jimbo and I haven’t played nicely in a long time. Our family’s a circus, and I let Jimmy-boy be the ringmaster when that should have been my job. He was too young and so was I but I thought being older gave me the right to be stupider and in a normal family it would have. That’s the point of having older kids, right? So they mess up in all the right ways so the little ones learn better? Well, I did and I shouldn’t have because I wasn’t free to mess up.  I didn’t have that pass and I took it anyway.  And Jimmy was so good about it I thought everything was a-okay but it wasn’t. And, you know, a little chaos is healthy, a little chaos is good.  I love chaos, I am chaos.  But too much chaos and you lose the point.  I lost the point and my brother cleaned up after me and then some bad things happened and I didn’t know about them because I didn’t know and the point stayed lost. Do you know what I’m saying or are you just nodding in all the right places?”_

_“Heh, ah, a little of both?”_

_“Good. A little chaos is healthy.”_

_“Are you, um, trying to apologize to your brother for something? Because that’s the vibe I’m getting here…”_

_“No. I’m stating some facts. Apologies are placebos. They just make us feel better without doing anything.  Facts are something you can work with.”_

_“Ah, okay.  Well, that seems to be all we’re going to have space for in the column, but, well, you seem to have had a very…interesting life, Lucifer.  I hope you patch things up with your brother.”_

Facts.

            Castiel didn’t stop the laugh this time. 

…

            “Lucifer?”

            “Are you sure you can talk to me?  Your bodyguard’s not around to protect you from my mean, mean words.”

            Cas stared at him, unimpressed. Lucifer was very new straw; a bright light filtered through a pale green film so it came out almost natural but also not-quite-right and sickly.  “I do what I want,” he said gravely, keeping the words bland and as un-ironic as possible.  Lucifer giggled ( _giggled_ , his brother was a headcase, but endearing in a disturbing way), the giggle giving way to a cackle until he was flopped on his back on his bed, shuddering in the aftershocks of compulsive laughter.

            Cas just continued to lean in the doorframe and stared at him.  “I read the interview.”

            Lucifer’s cackles had faded into whimpering snickers but he didn’t bother to sit up, just rolled his head over to eye Cas balefully, “Really?” 

            “I don’t lie, Lucifer,” at least not about much.

            “Liar.”

            Cas just stared at him some more.

            “Stop doing that. You’re like a cat watching a bird, ready to make the kill.” 

            Cas sighed, “If we’re making animal analogies, you are a dingo.” 

            “A _dingo_?” 

            Cas nodded, “Dingoes are harmless and friendly enough when left alone.  But when presented with a herd of sheep, they will kill all of them and gorge themselves on the wreckage until they can eat no more. And then they leave the slaughtered sheep behind.  And, underestimating their hunger, they will only eat a sliver of the herd’s population.”

            “Well, you know, I never was huge fan of mutton,” Lucifer shot for lighthearted, missed, and was treated to a serious look from Cas.  Not a glare, just a heavy, determined stare. 

            “The dingoes don’t know what they do.  It’s all about survival instincts.  The destruction is just…part of it.” 

            Lucifer looked at him, “And you’re saying I’m a dingo.” 

            “Yes. But I am not a sheep.”

            Silence. Lucifer sighed, a heavy, dramatic outpouring of breath.  “So I’m forgiven?” he said with a wry twist of his lips and voice.

            Cas shook his head, “It’s not about forgiveness.  It’s about facts.”

            A beat of stillness and then a harsh bark of laughter, “You little shit, you did read the interview.”

            “Yes. Dinner is in an hour.” Cas turned to walk away.

            “You mean dinner happens when your boytoy gets home and bothers to cook,” Lucifer called after him, voice a sing-song.

            “No, I’m ordering in.” Cas said, turning away and unlocking his phone, clicking to the first number on the recently-dialed list, “Dean, pizza.” 

            “You are allowed to use more syllables, you know.” 

            “Pizza.”

            “Okay, Cas.”

…

            “Get your clothes and grab some toast, we’re going to church!”  Castiel’s voice improbably invaded Claire’s dreams Saturday morning.

            “We don’t church,” Claire grumbled into her pillow, flopping an arm in the direction of her ridiculous father-figure’s voice. 

            For a handful of perfect seconds Claire was totally and completely sure that Cas’s voice was a bizarre dream and he’d left her to her sleep. 

            Then the ukulele started.

            “Claire, wake up.” At least he wasn’t singing. Just talking and strumming on the damn ukulele. Loudly.  The ukulele hadn’t made an appearance in _years._ Not since their Adventures during Claire’s childhood. 

            “Wah?” Claire grumbled, “Dad?”

            “We’re going to church,” Cas reiterated.  Maybe he changed chords; the sound changed, at least. 

            “Church?” she half-sighed, half-grumbled.

            “Cas, what is that? Stop, just stop.” The arrival of Dean’s voice cut off the rattle-squeal of the ukulele, “Claire, he means Powell’s. Get up, there’s breakfast.”

            “Oh. Pancakes?”

            “Waffles.” She could hear the grin in Dean’s voice.

            Claire made an embarrassing noise too close to a squeal for her personal comfort and rolled out of bed, crashing on the ground and rocketing to her feet, sheets a snarl around her ankles.

            “Waffles!”

            “Yeah, kiddo, waffles,” Dean laughed.  He and Cas stood in the doorway; Dean’s chin hooked over Cas’ shoulder, one arm wrapped around his waist from behind, the ukulele held out of Cas’ reach.

            Good, they must have talked about Dean’s ridiculous hovering.  They seemed so much more natural now that Dean wasn’t constantly fretting at Cas.

            “Waffles,” Claire grinned, “Now, you and your disgusting cute, get out.” 

            Cas gave her a half-smile and Dean grinned before dragging Cas off. 

            “We’re going on an Adventure,” she grinned to herself in the sudden quiet of her room. It had been too long.

…

            They crammed into the Impala, somehow managing to fit Dean, Cas, Claire, Lucifer, and Gabe into the tiny space.  Sam had paperwork to do (which Gabe had booed at when he mentioned it) but would be meeting up with them in Portland when he could. 

            “Sooo, a kidnapping? Classy as ever, Jim-boy,” Lucifer drawled from Claire’s right, blinking crankily into the early morning light, his short ash-blond hair sticking up from his head like the down of a bird.

            “A religious experience, Lucifer,” Cas corrected serenely from the shotgun seat.

            “Yeah, you mentioned church and I had a short existential crisis,” Lucifer grumbled.

            “Not that kind of church, Luci,” Dean said gruffly, driving with one-handed ease, the other reaching across the dash to tangle its fingers with Cas’.

            “The church of the written word,” Gabe sighed, “Nerd paradise.” 

            “Why are you even here?” Lucifer grouched.

            “ _I_ am a paragon of learned insight,” Gabe said primly, “And my father has failed to realize that continuing to release books may be hazardous to his health.  They’re making _graphic novels_ now.”

            “And…?”

            “ _I must have one_.”

            “It’ll be fun, Lucifer, I promise,” Claire said, giving him a smile and receiving a slightly less apocalyptic expression in return. 

…

            Gabe made a fort. Out of encyclopedias. He and Claire were currently crouched behind it, giggling like kindergarteners and thumbing through crappy romance novels, reading the most terrible lines out loud in fluttery, melodramatic voices.

            Lucifer was meticulously de-alphabetizing the children’s lit; moving as neatly and efficiently as an employee and flashing a Grinch-worthy smile at parents who frowned at him and his… _unconventional_ organizational system. 

            Cas had dared Dean to read the first chapter of _Twilight_ and was currently cataloguing every time Dean winced, grumbled, ground his teeth, sighed, or muttered about inaccurate portrayals of vampires.

            Lucifer craned his neck around the shelf to eye the two grown men sitting on the floor in YA fiction section. “Seriously?” 

            “I know my vampire shit, and this is freaking _wrong_ ,” Dean complained.

            “I was always team Edward,” Lucifer said blithely. 

            “Of course you read _Twilight_ ,” Dean grouched.

            “No, I read the leaked copy of _Midnight Sun_ and Wikipedia-ed the rest. In book four-”

            “No spoilers,” Cas’ glare could melt stone. 

            Lucifer laughed and went back to merrily making chaos.

            It got better when Sam arrived and was available to make pained expressions at everyone for their ridiculous behavior and follow behind Lucifer, re-alphabetizing every misplaced book.

            He also apparently had Opinions on _Twilight._ He was Team Jacob, the bastard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Straw is the name of a color used in stage lighting. It’s basically exactly what Cas describes it to be. And what he says about dingoes is mostly true. Dingoes, unlike wolves, don’t automatically know when to stop hunting. As long as they see prey, their instincts tell them they need to keep hunting, even if they’ve already caught plenty to eat. 
> 
> A huge thank you goes out to everyone who reads, comments or kudos-es this fic! You’re all awesome. :) If you have some time, please take a few moments to leave a review. I enjoy hearing from everyone!
> 
> P.S the chapter title comes from the song ‘Everything You Want’ by Vertical Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Welcome to Discount Angels, the sequel to Half Price Gemini! I’m super excited to be writing this and hope everyone is as psyched as I am. :)  
> The prologue’s title comes from the song ‘No Souvenirs’ by Melissa Etheridge (a great song).  
> As always, reviews bring light to my life and a smile to my face, if any of you lovely people have time, I’d love to hear from you. 
> 
> (btw, I will also be posting updates to this fic on fanfiction.net, but updates should happen near-simultaneously on both this site and that one so there shouldn't be any unnecessary waiting for anyone)


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